Thursday, December 15, 2005
The Case Of The Local Pub And A Most Perplexing Mystery.
My local is one of the oldest pubs in the town. Nestled down a bank by the railway lines off the beaten track, it has long had a reputation as a 'rough' pub housing the white underbelly of the towns rougher element. But in reality this is far from the truth. Originally a coaching stop in the eighteenth century and now located along side the railway station it has always benefited from a good passsing trade.
The unimpressive enterance conceals a rustic, drinkers haven and with Sky Tv and most importantly some of the cheapest beer in town, its rarely empty.
The landlord, Chris, is a large, vociferous, grizzly man. His large gnarled featured face props up a thatch of brown disheveled hair. A straight talking, 'take no shit' man Chris does not approve of the new licensing hours.
I'd rather you all fuck off an hour earlier' he fondly reminds us.
Like most smokey ale houses there is a regular and dependable crowd of regulars. As with Norm from Cheers, you know where they sit and when they'll be in.
Sean, 35, one of the weekend crowd confessed to me, in a very matter of fact manner, that the previous weekend his wife and he had left the pub as normal and experienced an unusual incident.
It had been a normal Sunday evening, the couple hadn't left the pub any earlier or any later than was usual.
"we don't know which one of us it was" Sean explained nonchalantly, "but one of us pissed the bed on Sunday night and we don't know which one of us it was."
This gave birth to an interesting and even more mind expanding discussion as his wife Gaynor had over heard the remark.
"It was you you dirty little bastard" his wife announced in earshot of at least ten people. Gaynor, a blonde haired and imposing figure, renowned for her sharp tongue is not a person to tangle with. In their relationship you would say that Gaynor definitely 'wears the trousers'.
"My back was fucking soaked. I cant piss up my own back so that proves it was you, you dick head!"
"Which side of the bed was wettest?" Asked one, now enthralled, local (who had found himself drawn to the conversation through macarbe fascination), hoping to sleuth his way to a solution.
"My side" Gaynor volunteered almost triumphantly "so that proves it must have been him pissing over me."
Sean, a wily bespectacled character rose proudly to this new challenge and handled himself with the quiet dignity of a top London Barrister. "Fuck off!" He boldly opened with (i imagined him stretching onto tip toes with his chin held high, chest out and hands confidently clutching the lapels of a clerical jacket.)
"It just means you pissed yourself on your side and rolled about in it all night you dirty bitch. Anyway i always get the blame" Added Sean defensively fixing an icy glare on his wife, indicating to the pub at large that this was no one off occurrence.
My local is one of the oldest pubs in the town. Nestled down a bank by the railway lines off the beaten track, it has long had a reputation as a 'rough' pub housing the white underbelly of the towns rougher element. But in reality this is far from the truth. Originally a coaching stop in the eighteenth century and now located along side the railway station it has always benefited from a good passsing trade.
The unimpressive enterance conceals a rustic, drinkers haven and with Sky Tv and most importantly some of the cheapest beer in town, its rarely empty.
The landlord, Chris, is a large, vociferous, grizzly man. His large gnarled featured face props up a thatch of brown disheveled hair. A straight talking, 'take no shit' man Chris does not approve of the new licensing hours.
I'd rather you all fuck off an hour earlier' he fondly reminds us.
Like most smokey ale houses there is a regular and dependable crowd of regulars. As with Norm from Cheers, you know where they sit and when they'll be in.
Sean, 35, one of the weekend crowd confessed to me, in a very matter of fact manner, that the previous weekend his wife and he had left the pub as normal and experienced an unusual incident.
It had been a normal Sunday evening, the couple hadn't left the pub any earlier or any later than was usual.
"we don't know which one of us it was" Sean explained nonchalantly, "but one of us pissed the bed on Sunday night and we don't know which one of us it was."
This gave birth to an interesting and even more mind expanding discussion as his wife Gaynor had over heard the remark.
"It was you you dirty little bastard" his wife announced in earshot of at least ten people. Gaynor, a blonde haired and imposing figure, renowned for her sharp tongue is not a person to tangle with. In their relationship you would say that Gaynor definitely 'wears the trousers'.
"My back was fucking soaked. I cant piss up my own back so that proves it was you, you dick head!"
"Which side of the bed was wettest?" Asked one, now enthralled, local (who had found himself drawn to the conversation through macarbe fascination), hoping to sleuth his way to a solution.
"My side" Gaynor volunteered almost triumphantly "so that proves it must have been him pissing over me."
Sean, a wily bespectacled character rose proudly to this new challenge and handled himself with the quiet dignity of a top London Barrister. "Fuck off!" He boldly opened with (i imagined him stretching onto tip toes with his chin held high, chest out and hands confidently clutching the lapels of a clerical jacket.)
"It just means you pissed yourself on your side and rolled about in it all night you dirty bitch. Anyway i always get the blame" Added Sean defensively fixing an icy glare on his wife, indicating to the pub at large that this was no one off occurrence.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Ikea.
These huge stores tend to have a cancerous effect on the globe multiplying until every corner of the world is infected with one on its doorstep.
Don't get me wrong, I shop at Ikea. Look round my home and the tell tale signs are all there, from Billy storage systems, Poang footstools to Reko drinking glasses swelling in my MFI 1980's kitchen units! And the place still looks a dump.
In recent years pay day for me was an orgy of drinking sessions, clubs and the purchase of endless CD's. This month i celebrated my much needed monthly cash injection with a visit, along with my girlfriend, to Ikea. Yet another landmark in getting older. I still remember the first time i used my hard earned wages to purchase my first 'Toilet Duck', and i knew there and then that i had completed a painful right of passage into adulthood.
Ikea seems to be the perfect solution to a modern day, hard working, havent got a minute to live, flat pack generation. I think its safe to say that shopping there with ones girlfriend is a huge mistake. No sooner had we passed the Ektorp corner sofa units, jodbero plant pots and decorative 'twigs' (we will buy anything they have), and my girlfriend had mentally spent the equivalent of a small nations national debt. They must use psychologists to arrange furniture in a fashion that brainwashes us to believing 'if we buy this, our house will look like this convincing display'. The Ikea experience truly made my nest of tables i bought at Widnes flea market look quite shameful.
My sole purpose for visiting the store was to purchase a new book shelf. I finally selected just the thing, a 'Leksvick storage unit' that somehow looks twice the size in my home that it looked in the shop. Obviously i didnt measure the bugger, im far too lazy for that nonsence i just loaded it to the flat trolley and then somehow defied physics to get it in the car by loading my girlfriend into the boot in order to make the space. It is a towering eight foot collossus of a thing that, even surprising me, took over two hours to assemble and a hell of a lot of bad language and battered thumbs! To select a book from its top shelf i now have to hire a cherry picker to winch me to its airy summit.
But it is all mine, i chose it, i paid for it, i got it home and above all else theres a sweet kind of false satisfaction that i built it. Damned Ikea, beguiled by the bloody Scandinavians, and i know i will be again!
