Sunday, 14 June 2009
The Good Olde English Pubbe...
Final Act: Spring 2009... Fhina Fee and her loyal and trusty confidante, GJ, return home from two hour sesh at local, rural pub, where Fhina is narrowly missed by several darts, flung by farmers asleep (from lambing), and is finally harangued by other, gargantuan, turban-towel-headed***, farmer neighbour for not buying meat locally, (i.e. from him), despite his farm-house butcher's counter clearly never ever being open during working hours... and his Butcher's Van being AWOL at "Dodgy Garage"...so he can't sell 'on the road'.
He buys us a pint of the Black Stuff, Guinness, as we are his new and much valued customers, and then proceeds to regale pub with hilarious, unsavoury and far from politically correct (PC), stories and jokes...
Fhina and GJ slink from pub, leaving cash-money behind bar for butcher's next pint;
Fhina endures strangle-hold-style hugs from now-sozzled and sotten butcher and hastily agrees to of copious cups of 'coffee' in his kitchen next time she calls to buy meat ('I'm a vegetarian!' Fhina screams inside her skull - 'What would I know about meat??!'), and we exit pub, a deux, waving and weaving hastily, and tripping over resident publicans' Dog and Cat, darkly-furred, and therefore not easily seen in night-blackened yard, while narrowly dodging, hastily-flung by natives, spear-type darts... One Hundred And Eighty!
Fhina and GJ arrive home, exhausted by the mental strain, and inability to digest pickled eggs, and slump onto sofa before oft-seen Saturday night film, only to receive musically and mentally challenging text from Lanky Spawn, Grizzler, saying he is having a more than fabulous time in a fantastic and famous restaurant in So-Ho, which has a fishmongously fashionable aquarium for one of its walls!
Quelle vie, non?! So unlike the home life of our own dear Queen...
Where did it all go wrong, mes amis?! I ask myself, I does!
*** Farmer Skelly was wearing the towel turban as bandage. He'd apparently been fencing his land earlier in the day, and had walked backwards as he was skilfully unloading wooden posts and railings, leaving the engine running on his vehicle, and so he'd managed to impale himself on the metal tines of his tractor!
We're tough stock oop north!
One hundred and eighty!