(no subject)
Title: Just like on the radio.
Fandom: It's been a bad week.
Characters: Steve Punt, Hugh Dennis.
Prompt: 037, sound.
Word Count: 429.
Rating: 13-ish?.
Summary: More drunken stuff. I am not in fact a total drunk. This was driven by an ep where Hugh was voicing the drunk unfortunate for one story.
Author's Notes: Hugh Dennis has a fixation on pants. Of this I am sure. I like to imagine that on being trapped in a lift with someone for several hours the subject of underwear would come up very quickly.
Dislaimer: All of this story is a complete fiction and does not reflect on the people whose public images I have misappropriated thus.
They’d been walking forever it seemed and while Hugh’s legs were getting tired his voice didn’t seem to be in immediate danger of succumbing to fatigue. Quite the opposite in fact, while his gait has slowed to a stumbling shamble his verbal pace became brisker as he got onto an old faithful subject - his pants.
‘An’ then ye walk inter’ shop and there y’are. Looking at ‘em. Rack o’ pants!’ Hugh swept one arm out in an expansive gesture that took in his imaginary rack of pants, the width of the street, two mangy-looking pigeons and the rather disgruntled semi-feral cat that had been stalking said pigeons before Hugh’s noisy arrival. ‘Behold, pants! An’ you stare at ‘em all with those crotch pichures on the boxes….’
Steve tuned the monologue out again as Hugh went into crotchtastisic detail, he wasn’t interested in Hugh’s pants, they were old hat to someone who’d known Hugh as long and well as he. Steve was far more interested in the amazingly comfy properties of Hugh’s shoulder as they shambled along leaning on each other. No! Got to stay awake! The last time he’d been this sleepy-drunk he’d actually fallen asleep in the neighbours’ back garden during a barbeque last summer. He’d woken up with the dawn chorus at quarter past four the next morning, head resting on the base of the kiddies’ slide and one foot in the paddling pool. The damp from that had spread all the way up his leg, making walking home rather unappealing.
‘… and the coloured ones are good for when you’ve got renegade socks!’ Hugh fell silent for a moment, leaving Steve to wonder what the Hell he was on about. ‘I love you.’ Steve gave him a look that might have been old-fashioned had it not been interrupted by a silly grin and an exasperated headshake. Hugh gave him a serious look. ‘You’re my best mate, really!’
‘You are such a cliché.’ Steve informed his friend with relish. He was going to expand on that, but Hugh’s inexhaustible voice prevented further comment.
‘And you love me for it. I mean think about it… clichés only got to turn into clichés ‘cause they get used a lot. And they only get used a lot when they’re handy and sort of true-ish….’ The moment of near-clarity of course couldn’t last long and Hugh was away again with a David Attenborough impression and a commentary on vernacular semantics that made sense only to him at that moment. Their pace picked up again and Steve laughed.
It was nice.
Fandom: It's been a bad week.
Characters: Steve Punt, Hugh Dennis.
Prompt: 037, sound.
Word Count: 429.
Rating: 13-ish?.
Summary: More drunken stuff. I am not in fact a total drunk. This was driven by an ep where Hugh was voicing the drunk unfortunate for one story.
Author's Notes: Hugh Dennis has a fixation on pants. Of this I am sure. I like to imagine that on being trapped in a lift with someone for several hours the subject of underwear would come up very quickly.
Dislaimer: All of this story is a complete fiction and does not reflect on the people whose public images I have misappropriated thus.
They’d been walking forever it seemed and while Hugh’s legs were getting tired his voice didn’t seem to be in immediate danger of succumbing to fatigue. Quite the opposite in fact, while his gait has slowed to a stumbling shamble his verbal pace became brisker as he got onto an old faithful subject - his pants.
‘An’ then ye walk inter’ shop and there y’are. Looking at ‘em. Rack o’ pants!’ Hugh swept one arm out in an expansive gesture that took in his imaginary rack of pants, the width of the street, two mangy-looking pigeons and the rather disgruntled semi-feral cat that had been stalking said pigeons before Hugh’s noisy arrival. ‘Behold, pants! An’ you stare at ‘em all with those crotch pichures on the boxes….’
Steve tuned the monologue out again as Hugh went into crotchtastisic detail, he wasn’t interested in Hugh’s pants, they were old hat to someone who’d known Hugh as long and well as he. Steve was far more interested in the amazingly comfy properties of Hugh’s shoulder as they shambled along leaning on each other. No! Got to stay awake! The last time he’d been this sleepy-drunk he’d actually fallen asleep in the neighbours’ back garden during a barbeque last summer. He’d woken up with the dawn chorus at quarter past four the next morning, head resting on the base of the kiddies’ slide and one foot in the paddling pool. The damp from that had spread all the way up his leg, making walking home rather unappealing.
‘… and the coloured ones are good for when you’ve got renegade socks!’ Hugh fell silent for a moment, leaving Steve to wonder what the Hell he was on about. ‘I love you.’ Steve gave him a look that might have been old-fashioned had it not been interrupted by a silly grin and an exasperated headshake. Hugh gave him a serious look. ‘You’re my best mate, really!’
‘You are such a cliché.’ Steve informed his friend with relish. He was going to expand on that, but Hugh’s inexhaustible voice prevented further comment.
‘And you love me for it. I mean think about it… clichés only got to turn into clichés ‘cause they get used a lot. And they only get used a lot when they’re handy and sort of true-ish….’ The moment of near-clarity of course couldn’t last long and Hugh was away again with a David Attenborough impression and a commentary on vernacular semantics that made sense only to him at that moment. Their pace picked up again and Steve laughed.
It was nice.