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!
11 comments:
Don't tell me that you want to be in Soho, Ms Fhina? How can that be? Poor little baby target...I just want to go over there and take that dart off!!! Where do you find all of these images...you must look for them for hours? Mr. Turbaned Butcher sounds like a real character...buy local!!! My advice: Avoid all pub-hugs! <3
You sure do live dangerously - those darts look lethal...
Having suffered a recent bought of 'over-servedness' at the beach bar in Mexico, this story makes me laugh. I was probably the towel-turban wearing person giving the hugs that evening!
I've missed you, Lady Fhina!
Bloggus Homus
XXOOXX
it surely is....I had fun reading your writings...you made me laugh, a wonderful quality in a human being...I shall return shortly to remove the sticky darts from dear baby's furrowed brow... :)
Just love that baby's bottom lip. "Pet lip" we used to call it oop north!
Cynthia: Ahh, Cynthia, this was the spring, and it was an odd juxtaposition of sorts, being up here, dodging darts, while Grizz was being feted in London's luxury! I do stumble upon the images mostly, using keywords on Photobucket - It's an amazing resource, I find... Poor baby, you are so right - We often seem to take the greatest of pleasures in seeing our animals or children made fun of by ourselves, non - Very odd xxx
jinksy: Too true, la Jinks! ;)
Bloggus Backus!!! I love it - 'over-servedness!' You are such a creative wonder, Bloggus Sistus - It's a delight to have you back and I hope your hols were fabulous, my dahlink! Can't wait to hear about all your adventuroses xox
linda: Bless you, Linda! Welcome x
Expat mum: "Pet lip" - Such a fabulously expressive description, non?! x
I remember those English pubs well!
Chère Boucle d'Or,
Boozing besom that you are. I hope that the hangover was manageable and would like your sympathy for my not wellness - the seafood platter on the Normandy coast (where there were lots of Scotsmen in kilts but too old for me to want to even imagine what was under them) was NOT fresh and although I only at one prawn, one oyster and a mouthful of crab, I have been feeling decidedly bleah ever since.
I shall think of Valerie's patisserie in Soho and perhaps the remembrance of whipped cream will make me feel better.
Grosses bises
What a tale.....my life is boring.
Farmer Skelly is lucky to be alive. Congrats on Post of the Day.
Over from David's to say congrats on the POTD mention!
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