Mr Parfitt goes Christmas Shopping

Portugal is a hellhole at this time of year, even Nuno will tell you that, so I’ve decided to take Mrs P to London for the annual Parfitt Christmas Shopping extravaganza. I say Mrs P, we aren’t married. I need to be sure before committing. And on that subject, if she tries to get me even 1 gold ring, let alone 5 of the bastards, she’ll be lonely this Christmas.

Anyway, I’m not here to run you through the ins and outs of my private life, I’m here to tell you all about the fun we had and the people we met. It wasn’t all fun, getting there was absolute hell to be honest. I wasn’t about to take my car, not when there are Christmas beers to be sticking in me pie hole, and not Mrs P can’t even drive, so that left Kinnear Coaches as the only option.

We hopped on board, and the smell hit us instantly. A lovely aroma of piss and puke, usually only found around the bar area at a Weatherspoons got wedged right in the snout. Its origin soon became clear, the driver was in a right state. It was hard to tell exactly who it was, but he looked vaguely familiar, had a Scottish accent that I recognised from somewhere, and a Torino crest on his suit. Judging by the state of the bus, wherever it, and the driver had been last night, that’s where the party was. 

So eventually the stinking old tramp at the helm of the death trap got us to Kings Cross. Me and not Mrs P hopped off and headed into the city streets for a beer before the arduous job of carrying bags so heavy that the handles start to cut through the skin on your fingers around shops so hot that you sweat like a paedo in a playground.

We weren’t the only ones to kick the day off with a beer though. As we strolled into the first pub we saw, who else did we come across but Walter Gough, Barbs and Wheels. Turns out the Funboy 3 had decided to move the party on from Marseille and Beddows Yacht to London, the second greatest city on Earth.

We sat across the way from them, although I obviously angled myself so that they couldn’t see me. I didn’t want to be caught out and have to talk to them. I overheard an interesting anecdote mind.

Wheels was telling Gough and Barbs about the night him and Schot Bruin shared a baguette. Not in a nice picnic sort of a way though, oh no. This was more in an either end inserted inside an anus kind of a way. Not the sort of thing you’d normally talk about in public, but Barbs had been sharing out some of her special stuff again, and Wheels had let his chops run away from him.

That was enough for me and not Mrs P, so we finished up and got on our way. Next stop was Camden Market. Not Mrs P wanted a new Christmas jumper. I only got her one seven years ago, but you know what women are like, never bloody happy.

So there we are, trying to avoid a bunch of steaming scum bags wearing SMACK tour Xmas ’17 t-shirts, when I spot just the thing. The stall was being run by everyone’s least favourite celebrity showmance, Beddows and Balotelli, or Stevio as they’re known in OK’s Italian sister publication, BelissimO K. Beddows was stood there like some Cockney barrow boy, trying to be like Conte, but coming across more like a cun*e, while Mazza was showing off the garb. 

It’s your standard market knock off shite, but we picked one up. It set me back £3.50, but at the end of the day, if you can’t treat her at Christmas, when can you treat her?

It was just as we were leaving Stevio’s stand, one of them goons in the SMACK tour t-shirts tried to grab not Mrs P’s handbag. It was none other than Stevio’s city rival Alex McLean. To be fair to the boy, not Mrs P does like a Smirnoff or seven, and she had one stashed in her bag, so he probably had the scent like a sniffer dog for crack. Anyway, we fought him off without too much trouble, and then stood back to watch as he waded in on Beddows.

Just has your boy McLean went in for the kill, the Kevin “Besiktas Boy” McGregor appeared out of nowhere. For a little blue fella, he packs a punch. He’s got more tats than you would imagine too, and they put on a good show the pair of them. 

While all this was going on, Stevio had shat themselves and run away, presumably all the way back to Milan. We didn’t see them for the rest of the day at least, but that was no loss.

As we were leaving the market for the high end shopping, we saw another one of the SMACK boys trying to raise some funds. We chucked him a Euro that somebody, probably Beddows, has sneaked into our change.

We headed down the Kings Road, which by the way has absolutely nothing at all to do with Hewitt, and went strolling towards Chelsea’s Stamford Bridge. No particular reason for it, other than to let Roman know that whichever McKenzie he’s got running the joint, was out smoking a joint with the SMACK gang.

We needed to get some more shopping done though, and not Mrs P wanted something more than Primark this year, so we went up to Harrods. Turns out they have a new “adult interest” range in there. Seemingly PMW knew all about it though. The good Prince had a trolley full of new gifts.

Obviously I asked him who they were for. He just gave a slightly embarrassed smile and said something about how he was going to stay at home with his chestnuts roasting gently by the fire.

We still needed to get something for the kids though. James Foster has been good this year, he’s looked after Alex Isaak & Ezequiel Ponce for me, so not Mrs P said we should get something for him as a thank you too.

We picked up this years must have toys, and just as we were about to leave, we came across the strangest sight. Golden Bear was sat down trying on Hewitt’s head gear for size. Christ knows how he got it, but the boy was proud as punch. Can’t say as I blame him mind, anything to bring the ego down a peg or 4.

To be honest, me and not Mrs P were about done by then, so we headed off for a curry and one last beer before heading off back home.