Listening to: Bob Lee – Wanted for questioning
Watching: Jail Bait
Living in a place with a pub and a church on every street is less of a claim when you consider how many streets we actually have. Never the less, it does set certain parameters on what social gatherings are going to be like. Actually, the same description may well apply to both pubs and churches. I do remember seeing a suggested recruitment advert for the Church of England ” Party at God’s house, wine, song and virgins”. Funnily enough, they didn’t use that one.
We had one particularly lively soiree recently, in The Anchor. Now The Anchor is an interesting pub, being as it is not situated anywhere near the sea. In fact, some of the regulars don’t seem to have been too close to any kind of water, but as my wise mother once said, “Only people who go in water drown”. Back to The Anchor though – I have often heard marine biologist type folk say that more people die of bee stings than shark attacks and I would be willing to accept that is true in The Anchor.
I am not going to use a name here, to protect the guilty, but this particular enlightened gathering had obviously begun much earlier for Mr X, and by the time of my arrival he had begun a monologue on the iniquity of politicians, taxes and most especially National Insurance. “What’s that about then?” Mr. X demanded. Another regular was happy to explain it was for cemeteries and stuff – “so they can bury you…. when you are dead” he added helpfully. As quick as a flash Mr X replied “Well I am not paying. If they won’t bury me for love, they will bury me for the smell.”
As the bard says, nae man can tether time nor tide, and as the night wore on, a small portion of Mr X’s brain was functioning sufficiently to remind him that driving would be a bad idea. With a grand flourish, he threw his car keys to the barman, announcing his intention to return for them the next day. This was very impressive, till after his grand departure, we realised his house key was on the same ring. I believe he passed the night performing pastoral dances in the field in a bid to keep warm.
The next night, Mr X returned and in a slightly lower key way, asked for his keys back and headed for the car park. After about half an hour, he stormed back in shouting, “Some bastard has stolen my car!”
The police were called, statements taken, and said car obviously missed the request to talk to the police. After a period of time, the insurance was claimed, payed out and a beautiful new car purchased. While out polishing his pride and joy, the phone went “Hi, its the Slackbuie Arms, are you ever coming to get your car from our car park?”
Atomic Crofter 