The northern girl stole a bucket and spade and headed to the beach. 

She built herself a tiny castle complete with a seaweed moat, a twig flag, three pebbles (beanbags for guests) and a pet kestrel scribbled in wet sand.

‘Dead posh,’ she thought as she walked back to the orphanage.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

Yesterday morning a man on my tube dropped dead. He was a sweet man with an infectious laugh. He held wicked and wonderful tales of his far reaching travels. He doted on his wife and two daughters. He was a kind, loving and generous neighbour. He was a man you dream to become and one you treasure to have met. 

Well, according to today’s paper. I avoided his gaze on yesterday morning’s commute.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

Once The Great British Bake Off director yelled ‘cut’, Mel and Sue took off their wigs and peeled off their prosthetics.

MEL: Don’t you think we’ve got enough money yet, Ant?

SUE: Shut your mouth Dec and write me some more shit cake puns.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” he said. 

“Good for you guys,” he said. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“That means a lot,” he said. 

“What did he say?” she said. 

“Good for you guys,” he said. 

“No, what did he say?” she said. 

“That means a lot,” he said. 

“No, what did he say?” she said. 

“I love you too,” he said. 

“Aww that’s nice,” she said. 

“When is she coming?” he said.

“I’m here,” she said. 

“When’s she coming,” he said. 

“I’m over here!” she said.

“Oh there you are!” he said. 

“You made it!” she said. 

“I did,” she said.

“She convinced me,” she said. 

“Oh you’re here too,” she said.

“I am ,” she said. 

“Great to see you,” he said. 

“Wow, less of the hands,” he said.

“Sorry,” he said. 

“You better watch it,” he said. 

“Calm down,” she said. 

“He didn’t mean to,” he said. 

“You stay out of it,” he said. 

“Whoa!” she said. 

“Come on, guys.” he said. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

“No worries,” he said. 

“No worries,” he said. 

“I love you,” he said. 

“I love you too,” he said. 

© Carl Burkitt 2015

As I queued up for the bus on my first day of big school, I couldn’t wait for the chariot to arrive.

I’d seen so many episodes of The Simpsons over the years that I was excited for a large, gleaming yellow submarine with wheels to swing by driven by a super cool driver with a welcoming high five and a load of happy, laughing kids in the back singing morale-boosting songs.

So when the faded silver double decker turned up, resembling a piece of disused tin foil, my little face dropped.

I crossed my fingers and prayed as the doors creaked open with a whine of a lost dog, only to reveal my second disappointment: ‘Get the fuck on,’ growled my 70-year-old driver, opting to go for stern one finger point instead of a slapped, whole-handed greeting.

I nodded, climbed aboard and sat on the front row – avoiding the eye contact of the 30 or so gravel-faced teens who, rather than singing their hearts out, glared through my soul with dead eyes of the condemned.

It took no more than 10 seconds from the bus chugging away before a 45-year-old-looking sixth former yelled: ‘Oi, newbie! What’s your name?’

After a few seconds of silence, I turned around to see him staring back at me.

‘F…Frank,’ I spluttered.

‘Spank?’ he said. ‘Your name is Spank?’

‘No, F-‘

‘Spank. Your name is Spank.’

As the population of the bus howled with laughter, I felt two shovel-sized hands scoop me up by my armpits and carry me to the back row. A bigger boy made me bend over and handed me a chewed-on pencil. ‘Bite down on this,’ he said. ‘It’ll make it easier.’

I thought about objecting, but just bit down in the hope obliging would grant me a quicker escape.

Before I knew it my bum cheeks received the hardest slap they’d ever received.

‘SPANK! SPANK! THAT’S YOUR NAME!’ rang out from the lips of my fellow schoolmates, in an act of disturbing spontaneity and unison.

‘SPANK! SPANK! THAT’S YOUR NAME!’

Each one took a turn to split the skin on my bottom.

‘SPANK! SPANK! THAT’S YOUR NAME! SPANK! SPANK! THAT’S YOUR NAME!’

I was unable to prevent a tear from trickling down my face, but as the singing grew louder and louder and the group’s morale grew stronger and stronger, I couldn’t help feel relieved that some things on TV do come true.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

Monday mornings are difficult.

It’s not necessarily him she misses, more his teeth. More specifically, the smell of his teeth. He always had lank, greasy hair in the morning; as if he’d been sleep jogging, and his eye-gunk was enough to turn any woman off. But his teeth? His teeth gave off the most intoxicating smell of fresh mint.

In fact, it was the smell of his teeth that she first noticed on that particularly shitty Monday morning. It was 8.30am outside bus stop X and the clouds were chucking out the most hideous of downpours, so she did her best to squeeze under the shelter – along with 30 other face-down commuters.

Her backside shuffled into his front side, as his breath engulfed her nostrils. The waft took her back to dinner parties of old and After Eight mints, until a little hand suddenly reached over her shoulder.

‘Rick,’ its owner said.

‘Laura,’ she replied, shaking it with her own.

Over the course of several months their relationship blossomed into ‘hellos’ and ‘thank yous’, and eventually ‘how are yous?’, every Monday morning. She never really paid attention to what he was saying, she’d just showered herself in the freshness of his smile.

One Monday morning, though – the Monday morning she now thinks about every Monday morning – Henry’s babysitter fell ill, so Laura had to take him to work with her. Like the first Monday morning she met Rick, it was raining. And as soon as the heavens opened, so did her son’s tear ducts.

With Henry wailing and flailing, Laura did her best to sneak into the already overcrowded bus shelter. As the other 30 head-down, eye-rolling commuters refused to budge, Rick smiled, stepped into the road and offered an ‘After you’ gesture with his arm.

Laura nodded, closed her eyes and let his scent carry her deep into the shelter.

To this day she is unsure how she missed all the noise (Henry is a loud crier, but not loud enough to hide the sound of bus hitting human bone).

It’s not him she misses. But the memory of Rick’s teeth littered across the road, laying in rotten scent of exhaust fumes, is enough to make Monday mornings that little bit more difficult.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

It was tight. It was good.

Gerald had never worn spandex before, but he was enjoying himself.

Certain parts of his body were being hugged for the first time and he felt alive. Sure, his stomach was protruding more than he’d like but, my word, it felt like two firm-handed beauties each had their fingers wrapped stiffly around his buttocks.

As he walked across the stage preparing to flex his biceps, Gerald suddenly got distracted by an all too familiar stench. He turned around to see the source, which was when he spotted Marcus, glaring back at him from the front row.

‘How?’ Gerald mouthed, before Marcus silently raised his right hand and began launching mouldy oranges at him.

The first twatted him in the mouth, the second against his jaw.

Gerald jumped off the stage and ran past the judges towards the door, clutching his face in an attempt to dodge another of Marcus’s missiles.

‘Come here, you bastard!’ Marcus yelled as he chased Gerald into the street.

Running as fast as he could, Gerald took a sharp left out of the building, tripping instantly on a crack in the pavement and spraining his ankle. As he lay on the ground, Marcus’s shadow consumed him.

‘This was my year,’ Marcus said.

‘I’m sorr-‘ Gerald tried, before his former apprentice smashed the remaining mouldy oranges over his skull, then wandered back to watch the rest of ‘Scarborough’s Grocer of the Year’ competition.

© Carl Burkitt 2015

A football PLAYER commits an horrendous, two-footed tackle on an opponent.

The REFEREE runs over and immediately brandishes a red card.

REFEREE: You’re off, son.

PLAYER: WHAT?!

REFEREE: Don’t what me, son. G’roff.

PLAYER: WHY?!

REFEREE: Don’t why me-

PLAYER: OH, COME ON! I DIDN’T DO NUFFINK!

REFEREE: Don’t play innocent with me, son. I’ve got a game to run. Now shove off.

The player waves his hands in the air.

PLAYER: FOR FUCK’S SAKE, REF! YOU’RE A FUCKING JOKE!

REFEREE: Call me what you like, that was a dangerous tackle worthy of a red. Now go!

PLAYER: YOU MUST BE FUCKING BLIND YOU FAT PRICK.

The referee points to the bench.

REFEREE: Any more and I’ll report you for dissent and get your ban lengthened. Now, GO!

The player puts his hands in a praying position.

PLAYER: But, please ref-

REFEREE: I SAID G- wait, what did you say?

PLAYER: Sorry?

REFEREE: What did you just say?

PLAYER: Err…Sorry?

REFEREE: No, before that…

PLAYER: Please?

REFEREE: …I thought so.

The referee puts his red card away.

REFEREE: Why didn’t you say that in the first place?!

PLAYER: Huh?

The referee ruffles the player’s hair.

REFEREE: Manners are all it takes to get me to completely change my decision, no matter how serious the offence. Now get back in there and have a good game!

PLAYER: Really?!

REFEREE: Really.

The referee smiles and waggles his finger.

REFEREE: Just play nice, you scamp!

The player kisses the referee on the cheek and runs back into the match, promising to never forget his manners again.

© Carl Burkitt 2015