Gibsons SUCK

Whatcha up to?

The Good Lady peered over my shoulder at the screen on my laptop which fortunately for once didn't have an array of scantily clad ladies playing Jumanji.

Less interestingly the screen was festooned with Guitars and their prices.

Ooooooooh!! Are you getting a new guitar?! Are you finally getting a Gibson?! You have always wanted a Gibson?

She seemed genuinely excited for me. An excitement which turned to puzzlement as I slammed the laptop closed and stood, a towering meaty mass of trembling rage.

A Gibson?! Gibson's SUCK!

I snapped contemptuously, like an Iguana spitting out a Norwegian cigarette.

What?! But... but... You always said they were the best and it was the...

I cut her off with a hand raised flat like one of those people in nineties sit-coms who did that weird chicken dance with their head and said uh-huh, no way sister.

What, one of the best guitars ever? The iconic guitar that every Guitarist secretly desires? The Guitar that can fool an elderly Walrus into gaining an erection at the baritone lushness of its song?

I shook my head at her pretty foolishness.

Inside I wondered how I could ever have ended up with this one. Was it too late to switch?

The Good Lady was backing away from me, horror painted over her face like grease from a drunken kebab munching.

I don't understand. You loved them. You said it was your dream to own one?!

She whimpered in confusion.

My dream?! To own something that SUCKS?! Are you mad? No way, I don't do SUCKY?!

I raged like a madman who had just found out that his white bread sandwich was one of those ones with the hidden fibre in it.

The Good Lady grabbed a cushion and threw it at me.

You're wrong?! They don't SUCK? It's Gibson? They can't suck, they just can't? Get out... Get OUT!! I can't listen to this madness anymore!

She ferreted about looking for something else to throw but it was too late, the door was already swinging closed behind me.

I paced the streets, seething about the thought of owning a Gibson guitar. What did I look like, a tramp?!

Minutes later, I sought shelter from the iniquities of the world in the local Bar.

GIBSONS SUCK?!

I exclaimed to the man standing next to me who had made the mistake of mentioning something about how windy it was outside.

What?! How dare you? My son's friend has a Gibson. It is quite frankly the sweetest thing to ever walk the Earth. Its awesome timbre pleases me in a way that my wife could only hope. Why I ought to punch you right in the face?!

He danced back a bit and raised his fists as if we were lovers and it was my turn to be buttered.

You want to fight me?! Over a Gibson? GIBSONS SUCK!

I dropped into a fighting pose of the kind that made ladies chew their bottom lip.

Now then, now then, what's going on here?!

A Policeman entered the bar as if this was a story that was happening entirely in my imagination.

He said Gibson guitars sucked?!

Yelled the Windy Fister pointing at me angrily.

Right you. OUT. We don't want your sort around here.

Said the Policeman, unceremoniously grabbing my shoulder and huckling me out of the door.

But but, they do, they really do SUCK!?!

I yelled as I was heaved out of the door into the street.

Any more of that garbage and you will spend the night in the cells!

The Policeman yelled before slamming the door on me.

I backed away and wandered off through the lonely night streets. It looked like I had nowhere to voice my opinion. What could I do...

Maybe I could join 3Speak?

_{Ok, perhaps it didn't happen quite like that but it's true, I ain't getting a Gibson!}