Et Tu, Brute?

Brute

As dawn breaks over stink-hit Britain, cats arch their backs and hiss at felines they don’t recognise. Could they be the cause of the awful smell? It seems best to catty minds to urinate and defecate as widely as possible, in order to ward off a further stink-fest.

Families hold their noses as they knock back eggy soldiers, then adults despair at the ineffectiveness of magic trees in their cars. The smell shows no signs of dissipating.

At The Unspeakably Posh School for Boys, Michael and Boris are deep in conversation.

“Read it again, Michael”, said Boris.

Michael held up the Union Jack postcard, postmarked Brussels, and intoned,

“Wotcha. The school trip to Belgium is such a bore. Johnny Foreigner told me I stink so I pulled down my pants and showed him my bum. Juncker says he’s going to expel me, but I don’t care. Hope you’re causing all sorts of trouble back at school. Can’t wait to get out of here. Nigel.”

“Huzzah!” giggled Boris, while Michael clapped enthusiastically, then tucked the postcard neatly into his inside pocket.

“Have you given any more thought to the matter of Head Boy?” asked Michael.

Since David’s Mum had pulled him out of the school, the position of Head Boy was now vacant.

“I’m going to stand,” said Boris, “and I want you to help me”.

“David changed after he became Head Boy,” said Michael. “He didn’t want to play with me any more, and started being a goody-goody. You won’t change, will you?” he asked, wringing his handkerchief.

“Well, of course I will,” said Boris. “You’re a bit thick really, aren’t you? I’ll have responsibilities, and with them comes great power, which corrupts absolutely. I should think I’ll be positively devilish.” He rubbed his fat hands with glee.

“But…” Michael hesitated. “I’ll still be your best friend, won’t I?” he asked, his lower lip quivering and his eyes swimming in more water than usual.

“Now, Michael, I’ve told you before: Head boys, don’t have best friends.”

“And you won’t make an exception, even for me?”

“No.”

Michael slapped Boris hard across the cheek.

“Then I’m sorry, Boris, but hell hath no fury.”

“Are you saying..?” gaped Boris, rubbing his jaw.

“You won’t know when it’s coming. It might be a wedgie, a Chinese burn, a nipple twist. But I’m coming for you, Boris. My vengeance shall be a monster!”

And with that, Michael flounced out. There was only one thing in his mind. He would stand for Head Boy, and he’d defeat Boris, if it was the last thing he did.

Meanwhile, in a development that had provoked great excitement, girls had been admitted   to the Unspeakably Posh School for Boys, as a consequence of the great stink that engulfed the nation. The local Catholic School for Girls had closed down after nuns had found the smell so overpowering they couldn’t even be brought round by smelling salts. At break and lunchtime, the girls and boys stood on opposite sides of the playground and pretended to ignore each other, while secretly being fantastically in love.

There was one girl who stood a little taller than the rest. She’d caught Boris’ eye, and that lunchtime, he made his move.

“How do you do?” he asked her, fidgeting with his hands.

“Very well,” replied Theresa. “I’m standing for Head Boy.”

“Gadzooks, that’s preposterous,” said Boris. He’d thought she was attractive, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Can a girl even be Head Boy?”

“If Caitlyn Jenner can bend her gender then this girl can,” replied Theresa primly, while her clique finger-snapped in Boris’ face. She turned her back on him and strode off, leaving him lost in thought, and completely oblivious of the danger he was in, until Michael pulled Boris’ pants up so high he yelped. He turned to face his oppressor.

“I told you not to cross me. This is how it starts. Tomorrow, I’ll stand for Head Boy. You’d better be ready,” spat Michael.

“Et tu, Brute?” asked Boris.

“Oh, don’t be such a bally thespian,” replied Michael, pushing his glasses over the rim of his nose. He fixed Boris with a withering stare, then  walked off.

Boris took a deep breath of stinky air, gingerly returning his pants to their proper position and reflected that perhaps going for Head Boy was not such a good idea after all.

Missed part one? Catch up here.

 

 

Advertisements

3 thoughts on “Et Tu, Brute?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s