Timmy and the Sniffy Spaniel

One free short story, here for your delectation and delight. I wrote this a while ago and, believe it or not, it’s actually based on a true story. Honestly, one hundred percent true. I used to do this short story live on tour, the best renditions being with Allan Guthrie taking on some of the parts.



“Gosh, mummy,” said Timmy, hopping down from the breakfast table, leaving a half-eaten bowl of Wheatypuffs, “I hope you remembered to pack my gym kit today! We’ve got Mr Frobisher this afternoon and he makes us play netball in our pants if we forget. And then he watches us in the showers.”

“Mmm? That’s nice dear.” Timmy’s mummy didn’t even look up from the paper.

“He offered to wash Little Stinky Wilkinson’s unmentionables for him last time.”

“Don’t forget your packed lunch, dear.” She waved a slice of buttered toast at a Spiderman lunchbox on the counter.

Timmy grabbed it and skipped out the kitchen door. Remembering at the last moment to rush back and give his mummy a kiss on the cheek.

Outside it was a lovely sunny morning. All the flowers were out, and little happy bees bumbled through the warm air, making honey for all the children. Timmy ran into his bestest friend Johnny at the corner. Johnny was waiting for the lollypop man to come so he could cross the road to school.

“Hello Johnny!” said Timmy.

“Hello Timmy!” said Johnny.

They stood and waited patiently until old Mr Durham shuffled up with his big traffic stopper, that looked like a lollypop and had ‘Stop Children’ written on it. Secretly Timmy felt sorry for Mr Durham, because his wife had died three years ago and now his existence was one long parade of misery and loneliness. Timmy thought that Mr Durham probably thought about killing himself, but was too scared to go through with it. Which was a shame. If he killed himself he could go to heaven and be with his wife, and all the dismembered prostitutes Mr Collins the lorry driver had buried in his back garden.

Mr Durham walked into the traffic, but no one ran him over. So he sighed, and waved the boys across.

“Did you hear?” said Timmy as they skipped down the road and through the school gates. “We’re having a visit today, from a policeman and his doggy!”

Johnny froze. “Are you sure, Timmy? A policeman and his doggy?”

Timmy beamed with pride. “Positive! I heard mummy talking to the headmaster last night all about it. He’s one of her regulars and likes to be spanked.”

“Oh… bum!” said Johnny. “Oh bum, bum and double, triple bum!”


Johnny looked round them, then dropped his voice to a whisper: “I’ve cheeked about an ounce and a half of Moroccan brown.”

“Tee hee!” Timmy laughed. “‘Moroccan brown’ sounds like number twos!”

“Will you grow up? This is serious!”

Johnny looked so sad that Timmy felt sorry for teasing him. “I’m sorry, Johnny.” He said, and offered his bestest friend a fizzy cola bottle to make him feel better.

“Fuck!” Johnny looked about nervously, but old ‘Basher’ Brigs — the school bully — was nowhere to be seen. Because he’d been wounded in a drive-by shooting last week and left in a coma. “Look, could you hold some stuff for me? Till after assembly?”

Timmy thought about it. “Sorry Johnny, but I’ve already got an ASBO for possession with intent. Besides, it’s been up your bottom. Can’t you plant it on one of the girls instead? They’re icky!” Timmy thought all girls were icky, because they made him wear a little rubber sleeping bag on his fireman, before they’d play with it.

Johnny chewed his bottom lip for a moment. “I know!” He smiled, happily. “I’ll hide it behind the cistern in the toilets! No one will ever think of looking there. We hid that flick-knife in there for weeks, till the cops stopped looking.”

“What a great idea, Johnny!” Timmy clapped his hands with glee — his friend was very clever!

But suddenly Timmy’s clever plan was ruined, as nasty old Mr Hargreaves, the maths teacher, stormed into the playground shouting: “Didn’t you hear the bell, you little horrors? Assembly! Everyone in the gym hall now!”

Johnny went pale, but Timmy had a clever plan of his own! “Excuse me, sir,” he said, holding his hand up, so the teacher could see him, “but Johnny’s got a nasty case of the squirties! He’s like a balloon filled with stinky oxtail soup. Shall I escort him to the toilets?”

Mr Hargreaves checked his watch. Frowned. Then said, “No. He should have gone before school. I’m sure he can hold out for another twenty minutes. Come on everybody!”

“But…” said Johnny, “But I’ll crap myself!”

“Then you’ll have to sit with Mrs Richmond the Religious Education teacher.”


“Because I don’t like her.” And then he ushered them all into school.

The gym was full of children all sullen and sulky, waiting for the assembly to be over so they could go sniff glue behind the bike sheds at break time. Timmy didn’t believe in sniffing glue. Sniffing glue was silly and stupid. Especially when your bestest friend had an ounce and a half of best Moroccan hashish.

Timmy sat in his seat and waited for the headmaster to get up on the stage. He didn’t look the same without his gimp mask and the black rubber trousers with no bottom to them. The headmaster’s bottom always looked very pink and sore when he visited Timmy’s mummy, but he always seemed very happy.

“Right you lot, settle down.” Said the headmaster, sitting carefully on one of the seats. “We have a visitor with us today…” The headmaster paused for effect, and Timmy glanced over at his bestest friend, wondering if Johnny really did have diarrhoea — he certainly looked like he was doing a number two in his pants right now.

The headmaster pointed a hand at a frumpy lady sitting next to grumpy old Mr Hargreaves, “Mrs Wilson.”

Mrs Wilson stood up and smiled at them all. “Good morning children.”

Everyone smiled back at her, except for Johnny who was trying to fake having a seizure to get away before the rozzers arrived. “Good morning Mrs Wilson.”

Mrs Wilson nodded happily. “You were supposed to have a visit this morning from a policeman and a sniffer dog. Do you know what a sniffer dog does?”

Timmy put his hand up and said, “He sniffs!”

Mrs Wilson clearly didn’t know if he was taking the piss or not, but she soldiered on regardless. “That’s right: he sniffs. He sniffs for drugs. Drugs are bad, aren’t they children?”

“Depends how much they cost.” Said a little girl from 2B. “Sometimes they cut the really cheap drugs with caustic soda or washing powder, and that shit can seriously fuck you up.”

“Ah…” Mrs Wilson’s smile slipped a bit. “Yes… Well…” She cleared her throat and tried her happy smile on again. “Well, we at Norfolk County Council have decided to ban the police from visiting schools with sniffer dogs, because they might catch one of the children or teachers with drugs, and that’s not good for your self esteem.”

“Hurray!” shouted the children.

“Hurray!” shouted the teachers.

“Thank fuck!” shouted the headmaster.

Timmy turned and winked at Johnny. Everything had turned out all right!
The end.
And I’m not kidding either: Council Bans Sniffer Dogs From Schools.