A Flying Pasty?
This little tale is one that might not come over well on-screen, but I’ll give it a whirl anyway.

Some years ago I was with a friend when his elderly mother popped in to see him at work. We had a civilised cup of tea together, chatted about nice normal things, when the topic of conversation turned to poo. A strange topic, I grant you, but the aforementioned Colon The Barbarian (see a previous answer) had retired from our group to bake one, and we were discussing just what poor state his guts were in.

Well, the old dear seized this subject and ran with it. I genuinely thought I was going to have a seizure as she told, totally straight-faced, of a never-identified arch-fiend that haunted her childhood town.

Not Jack the Ripper, not Spring-Heeled Jack, no, far worse, the streets were buzzing with the hunt for the “Flying Pasty Thrower” (or “Frower” as she relayed it).

Now, I’m a man of the world, but a “Flying Pasty” had until then escaped my knowledge. Apparently, this foul deed is one that consists of nipping one off , wrapping it up in paper, then flinging it over someone else’s garden wall.

It seems that on many an occasion, residents were in their back yards when they were treated to a Flying Pasty, but by the time they had recovered their composure, the culprit was but the sound of running feet echoing down the alleyway.

Time and again, he (or she, I have drawn my own conclusions and they aren’t pretty) delivered the goods and escaped the ensuing hue and cry into the night.

Evidently the attacks increased to such proportion that no single human could produce that amount of ammo. Not even the man who started Greggs The Bakers, and he has managed to shift plenty of shit pasties every day.

The streets were paralysed with fear, fear of attack, and fear of being accused by The Mob of being The Flying Pasty Frower. Suspects included the Mayor (every suspect list has to have a Mayor on it obviously), the Barman from the local pub, and bizarrely, the Vicar (that’s who the old dear was sure it was).

Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped, culminating with an escalation in the ferocity of the assault itself – The Burning Flying Pasty, chucked onto a doorstep, a knock on the door, and escape.

My friend’s Mum had the dubious honour of witnessing the zenith of this heinous crime, and said, with relish, that the bloke next door had stamped the fire out with gusto, before realising what was in the burning newspaper.

His words were “Bloody ‘ell…….It’s ooooo-man”. (said in a Leicestershire accent)

At that point I fell off my chair and had to beg her to shut up. I couldn't breathe for laughing.
For years afterwards, any long quiet pause at work would be interrupted by someone saying “Bloody ‘ell….” To be finished by someone the other side of the room. Even the word “human” could spark giggles and repetition of the phrase that pays. Pure comedy gold, I’m laughing right now.

Oh, one final thing. I can state with absolute resolute honesty, that I was NOT the culprit behind the spate of Flying Pasties that assailed family BBQs that long hot Summer, burning or otherwise in my home town. I think it was some sort of ghostly historical echo. Yep, that’s it.

I think it might have been her. I mean, who would have suspected the innocent-looking old dear? I guess we'll never know, and the Frower has disappeared into the mists of time, carrying his/her warm parcel of delight.
(Rsoles, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 12:41, Reply)