A Matter of Machismo

“Are yer comin’ a bigun?” is a contemporary British expression which simply means, “Are you looking for trouble?”

“Are yer comin’ a bigun?” The fat one growled the question from between clenched teeth, his piggy eyes glaring through the quickening murk of winter’s afternoon.


The onus was always on him to make the first move, being the incumbent Mr. Big. He wasn’t as hard as he used to be due to fifty pounds of blubber, but in this matter of machismo, his meanness more than made up for the softness of his large, bouncing belly.


“Are yer comin’ a biggerun?” The dirty one spat the return, his gaunt face scary in the glow of yuletide neon.


This was the classic first response in a clash of jaded testosterone. The dirty one was ten years passed his peak and his breath bore testament to countless whiskeys, but this did not detract from the ferocity of his camp, mocking snarl.


“Yer ain’t gorra bigun in yer,” the fat one grunted, suddenly breathless at the longer-than-average sentence.


Steady drizzle cast a deeper gloom over the bleak December day. Grey passers-by paused in their furtive endeavours and stared, eyes agog, at this modern-gothic parody of a wild-west gunfight.


“My bigun’s bigger’n yer bigun.” The dirty one savagely cast away his Santa hat as his vitriol dramatically upped the stakes.


A scrawny Anglo-Saxon girl with tinsel in hair and fag between lips thrust a grimy dummy into her infant’s mouth and elbowed forward for a grandstand view.


“I’ve gorra lump on the end of my bigun.” The fat one dealt his trump card as the crowd tensed, sensing an approaching climax to this duel of the faded egos.


Feeling suddenly vulnerable, a devout Muslim onlooker prayed, “Allahu Akbar,” as he clasped his bulging wallet to his breast.


“Ave yer really gorra lump on the end of yer bigun?” asked the dirty one in a seeming moment of weakness.


“A bigun on the end of my bigun,” the fat one bragged in rising triumph.


“I ‘ave too,” returned the dirty one, “an’ it’s bigger’n yer lump on the end of yer bigun.”


Pinched faces on beta males told their own story as each yearned for the physical and mental prowess necessary for admitting to a bigun, bigger’n any other bigun, on the end of their own bigun.


“Yo,” was the intellectual thought of a spotty yob as he pulled up his hoodie and assessed the grip the Muslim man had on his wallet.


The gladiators circled… each trying to make the most of the shelter available under the lee of old Gupta’s festively adorned, turkey-and-stuffing stall.


“Yer ain’t gorra lump an’ yer ain’t gorra bigun,” scoffed the fat one, almost blundering into a display of plastic Christmas trees.


“Oh yes, I ‘ave,” returned the dirty one with more than a hint of mince in his tone.


“Oh no, yer ‘aven’t,” the fat one mocked.


“Oh yes, I ‘ave!” the dirty one shrieked.


The fat one’s eyes narrowed even further and his belly wobbled even more as he took a half-step closer and dared, “Show me.”


The dirty one coughed asthmatically as he leered, took a half-step closer and spat, “It’ll take yer eye out.”


Both protagonists took a sudden full-step backwards as they realised how close they’d actually got to each other.


“Look, baby,” the Anglo-Saxon girl’s eyes shone as she whispered to her child, “can you guess which one is your daddy?”


The cold wind wailed like a banshee as the toddler spat out the dummy and gurgled, “Bigga, bogga, bugga.”


It’s a shame the situation was allowed to get this far. Neither of the alfalfa males has ever been a good man and you could say they deserve the very worst from life, though it’s quite sickening to see them trading serves in this verbal variant of an urban tennis match.


The fact of the matter is that there’s no room for two aging bulls down this street… too much at stake and one of them has to die… though I think they’ll both find work in future series… and the paternity of the baby Jesus needs to be revealed… and the audience is desperate for testosterone, vitriol and blood… and it will boost the Christmas ratings.


“Bigun, my arse,” the fat one accused.


“Bigun, my aunt Fanny,” the dirty one incriminated.

© Shackleton 2023
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