Murder on the dancefloor

Posted on February 20, 2012 by Myras_Kitchen 7 Comments

So, you know the club in the village, right?  The one that used to be The Loft?  Well there’s a funny story, right, about who owns that club.  No, really, it’s a really funny story, dead interesting, so bear with me here.  Because it was originally built by Finn and Lewis, right, not gravel-voiced man-boy Finn (TM Mrs WLH), a different Finn, who raised the money on the back of the fact that he was secretly Lord Kerrygold with a castle in Ireland and everything, a bit like Barney’s, so Finn and Lewis had it 50/50.  But then Lewis (you know, Mandy’s brother) gambled away all his money in sleazy Lorraine’s casino and had to pay her back in sex, so Finn got Tony “The Hutch” Hutchinson to buy him out, so then Finn had 50 and Tony had 50, and then Lewis died anyway, very tragic, and sad Finn sailed away on a barge with Cat Deeley, leaving the whole cursed thing to Hutch.

So then Tony gave it to Max and OB, right, as a Christmas present, as you do, so they had it 50/50.  You know, Max who was Mandy and Lewis’s step-brother.  And then Max and OB fell out over Max’s evil bride Clare, who tried to kill him, and I’m a bit fuzzy on what happened with OB’s 50 then, and wikipedia’s no help.  Anyway, they made up again after the whole poisoning thing, but Clare still scared Max witless and rightfully so, so he signed the poison chalice over to her, 100%.  Then Clare, she wasn’t real popular after all the poisoning and explosions and shit, so someone pushed her off the Loft balcony but she had a list of enemies as long as your arm, so she didn’t know who.  But that Warren Fox, who she’d been getting up to all sorts with, he made her think it was him so she signed it over, like 100%, and he ruled the roost for a fair whack.  But he must have sort of regretted it later because she came back from the dead, tied him up in the upstairs bar and set fire to him and it, though he actually died when a poorly-attached mirror fell on him and knocked his head clean off.  I’m pretty sure we did actually definitely see that happen, though my memory’s a bit hazy, and it was tea time, so maybe not.

So in his will, right, Warren left the club 100% to his foster brother Spencer, a lad afflicted by the terrible disadvantage of having bent copper Calvin Valentine helping him run the place, a man who spent most of his time in the Sex Office boffing the barmaid, none other than his wife’s sister.  Then Calvin got himself unfortunately terminated by a direct shot to the chest by McQueen hands, and Spencer wisely realised that without Warren he was pointless, took a hasty exit, and put the place on the market again for quick sale, no questions asked about previous owners (three dead), or fire insurance (invalid).

So then Belfast Cheryl, right, she’d just won a quarter mill on the old lotto, she set her sights on the club, but she’d already blown half the money on dayglo spandex tights and Ratners jewellery.  But then Brendan, he’s her half brother with the different accent, he turns up, right, with his moustache and his distractingly hairy chest and his closet full of secrets and his mouth full of Irishness, and he calls this dodgy geezer Danny Houston, so then they buy it together, and she calls it Chez Chez, in the most breathtaking double BTM manoeuvre ever recorded, but this is Cheryl we’re talking about.  So now Cheryl owns 50, and Danny owns 50, and Brendan runs it.  So then Warren isn’t dead by decapitation after all (don’t ask), and Danny comes over a bit murdery and “Ah’ll hurt your boy, Brendan,” so Brendan and Warren team up to stitch Danny up like a cockney kipper, right, and in return for Brendan not stoving Warren’s head in with a crow bar, Warren says he’ll get Danny to sign his 50 over to Brendan, and then Warren will off him.  But then Danny’s all “Ah’m gonna pay the lovely Stephen a little visit”, which was unwise, because Brendan offs him with a hammer first, and it turns out Danny didn’t sign to Brendan after all, he signed to Warren, cos it’s a double cross, innit, so now Warren’s got 50, and Cheryl’s got 50, and Brendan runs it.

So there’s a few months of Brendan and Foxy glaring at each other with homoerotic tension, easily mistaken for mutual hatred, and then Brendan uses a shedload of cash that he nicked off Warren who nicked it off Danny (RIP), to buy Cheryl’s 50, cos the constant homoeroticism is giving Chez a migraine and she wants rid, but she won’t sell 50, she only sells 48, so she still gets final say, so now Warren owns 50, Brendan owns 48 and Cheryl owns 2, right.  Then Brendan gets put in jail to perfect his muscles and Wazza gets him beaten up because he’s flipping obsessed with getting back his club, and Warren’s throwing his pasty-enhanced weight around outside, and Chez gets to utter the line “I do own 2 per cent of this club y’know,” a million times until Warren fires her in desperation.   Then Brendan gets out again because he’s innocent, right (don’t mention Danny), and there’s a whole bunch more homoeroticism with Brendan lazing around sucking up inappropriate cocktails and sniffing Warren’s illegitimate son Little Scottish Foxy, until Foxy finally loses his marbles under the power of Brendan’s hooded hairy allure, and drags Mitzeee off to Louise’s grave at dead of night, where Warren nearly kills Brendo, but gets kyboshed at the last minute by Little Scottish Foxy whapping him over the head with a rock.  Or a gun.  I can’t actually remember, it was dark, and I’d probably had a couple of glasses of vino tinto, it was Christmas.

So then Warren gets carted off to fill Brendan’s recently-vacated cell, the crumpled photo of the lovely Stephen still tucked under the prison pillow to keep Foxy warm at night, and Little Scottish Foxy asks Brendo to give him a job as a cool DJ, because he owes him, right?  But Brendan tells him to do one, no idea why, maybe he just had PMT that day.  So now Brendan’s still got 48 and Cheryl’s got 2 and Warren’s got 50 but he’s in jail so Brendan’s top dog, and he’s all “Oi’m back suckers.”  He briefly considers renaming the place BB’s Cocktail Lounge, but rejects it.  OK, I made that up.

So then this week, Little Scottish Foxy came back, which was a surprise, and he’s all “Ah owun fufty prsent o’ thus pulace, doan ah!” cos he’s a lanky authentic Glasgae rockabilly leather boy, and Brendan looks confused, as were we all.  But once he’s put it through Swoosh Translate, he’s not happy, cos it turns out Foxy has given his 50 to Little Scottish Foxy, and now LSF wants to take over, trendy up the music (rockabilly punk out, dubstep in) and turn it into King Tut’s Frickin’ Wah Wah Hut.

So Brendan is all “see this club, boy, it’s moine,” and LSF is all “ah’m no’ goain aini’waire.”   Brendan tries the magic finger trick on him, but seems like Joel’s leathers protect him against their hypnotic force.  Then they nearly have a big old punch-up over it, in spite of the fact that LSF is 18 and weedy and looks ridiculous and starey-eyed when he’s angry, and prison-muscled Brendan (oof, is it hot in here?) could just stare him into an orgasm, and then pick him up while he’s vulnerable and snap him like a twig.  Luckily Cheryl gets in the middle (she’s got 2% you know) and they resort to a “mean look face-off”, which Brendan blatantly wins, with Joel frankly falling back on what can only be called a disappointingly mild glare.

 

But then LSF is a bit worried that his inheritance from Daddy Fox might come with a few strings attached, like, stitch Brendan up like an Irish kipper (no I don’t know whether there are Irish kippers), and he’s a good lad really, is wee Joel McFoxy, when he’s not in a fighty mood, so he extends the hand of totally non-homoerotic  comradeship to Brendan, and says they should work together, right.  And Brendan looks at it like it’s last night’s used twink, cos he’s not really the type for a running a caring sharing co-op, and running that club and frequent random shags are all he’s got to take his mind off the lovely Stephen at night, but he’s all for a quiet life while he plots his next evil move, so he takes the deal.

So … I told you this was interesting, right?  Because it could never get old, could it, who has what exact percent of a cut price juke joint next to Price Slice with a capacity of 16, more neon than a seventies strip club, a collection of modern art that would make a Saatchi blench, one well-used Sex Office, three dead previous owners, two more in jail, and probably a few more on the highway to hell.  The club matters, see?  It’s the seat of all Oaks power.  The Centre of the Known Universe.  It is sex.  It is death.  It is money.  It is a range of Babycham-based cocktails to a willing hen party, almost certainly consisting of McQueens, and a set of very well-used toilets, mainly for crying, fighting, plotting, snogging, shagging and camping out.

And I think this is gonna run and run, because I’m not sure Little Scottish Foxy should trust Brendan, and I’m not sure Brendan should trust LSF, and it’s a funny story, right, but now LSF has 50 and Brendan has 48 and Cheryl has 2 and …

Hello …?

Anyone still there?