Working on the Chain Gang
Three straight nights of sobriety; I
don’t know what all the fuss is about.
Though last night I did have a fleeting, longing look at a cold bottle
of the wonderful Aldi Steinhauser German lager (which I am convinced is
rebranded Becks) which is nesting in the fridge before having an admonishing
word with myself. I then turned to do
the washing up and the bottles of ale in the wine rack seemed to beckon me but
again I resisted before spotting the vodka when I was rustling among the
bottles for some squash but it was only a brief flirtation and I determinedly
stuck to the squash. I have realised
that I take great pleasure in putting a “0” in the “Units consumed” column for
the day on the Aquarius five point alcohol reduction plan, it is a similar
sense of satisfaction to earning a clean sheet in a game of football, which
being a defender was my principle objective.
Pleasure can also be found of course in clean sheets in a different
context when getting into bed after changing the bed linen, which usually
happens once a week in Codger Mansions in order for me to eschew complaints
from Alfie the teddy, who does after all spend infinitely more time in bed than
me.
On Monday morning I found that clean steps and not clean sheets was what
the cleaning man at Snow Hill Station was desirous of as I found him mopping
the station steps without much enthusiasm or vigour; the reason for the lack of
zeal in the cleaning man’s approach was that he was idiotically undertaking the
mopping task during the morning rush at 0845 hours, just as commuters were
streaming out of the station to their various offices and workplaces in the
city centre, so the steps were once more dirtied as quickly as he had cleaned
them, leading to him having to continuously repeat his actions. Incredibly when I reached the office I was
greeted by the sight of the resident Mr Mop undertaking exactly the same action
as his Snow Hill station counterpart, resulting in comparable results. (The
office is on the third floor of the building and I always take the stairs to
provide me with a modicum of exercise before sitting on my ar*e for eight
hours.) I hazard a guess that in their
former lives both men worked on the chain gang of a state penitentiary in
Mississippi and had to break bricks and the mopping and re-mopping of steps in
some way gives them a degree of comfort and connection with their former
lives. Both fellows need to go back to
school to reconsider their respective mopping tactics.
(As an aside, in matters relating to cleanliness, or more accurately a
lack thereof, the line of the week goes unequivocally to Ung Pirat who
described his father’s (i.e. the Pirate’s) chaotic and dishevelled room as “a
‘70’s charity shop that has exploded.”)
If Messrs Mop and Mop returned back to school they would find themselves
in the middle of a crackdown by the authorities on parents taking children out
of class during term time to go on holiday, much to the consternation of many
parents who can ill afford to go away in the school breaks. I would imagine that the stricter regulations
will lead to many parents claiming that their children are ill so they can go
on holiday. This tactic could pose
problems if families go to clement destinations as it will look very suspicious
if the child returns to school with a glowing suntan. Given this potential issue I predict that
there will be a boom in holiday bookings to Iceland and I have rustled up a few
pennies and bought a share in Icelandair.
Flagon & Gorses dignitary the Abdul can be spotted in Iceland most
weeks, not the country but the supermarket in Halesowen, buying a stock of
frozen chicken tikka lasagnes. If
families do visit hot locations on their illicit holidays they will have to
dress their children in burkas to prevent them acquiring a suntan or force them
to inhabit one of those funny little tent like shelters whilst on the beach to
keep them out of the sun.
One schoolboy who will most probably
not complain about not being able to go on his jollies during term time is the
bespectacled Harry Potter as on the evidence of the film that I watched on
Saturday night with my son Kenteke Potter seems to be having a jolly and japing
enough time at school as it is. Mind
you, if ever Hogwarts were to be visited by OFSTED they would be sure to fail
the inspection as amongst other things the pupils’ lives appears to be under
constant threat. During the film (the Prisoner of Azkaban) one of the
Hogwarts teachers even turned out to be a werewolf, so the school cannot be CRB
screening the staff, which even I know is a basic requirement. Incidentally, the physical appearance of my
old cohort the Frymaster General is so similar to that of a werewolf that it is
said that on a full moon he turns into a human.
Despite it not being a full moon the Chancellor George Osborne had to visit the Chinese in a state of
desperation this week but I empathise with him as I often have to do the same,
usually on a Saturday night after closing time. That said since my last despatch I have
managed to avoid my nemesis, being the Baby Faced Assassin who lurks behind the
counter of the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away and I feel a lot better for not
having ingested his fatty oriental wares.
Although I did not suffer the
unusual tastes of the Rhareli Peking this week, on Sunday in the Flagon &
Gorses Chilli Willy did serve me an intriguingly drink called a Shrub in order
to illicit my opinion. I couldn’t place
the alcoholic content of the drink; at first I thought it tasted like a very
bitter cider (or even a cider gone off) that was mixed with black currant and
tonic then I suggested to Willy that the drink contained sherry. Willy said no
on both counts. The drink tasted curious
and unusual but was pleasant and different.
Chilli Willy eventually confessed that it is a non-alcoholic drink and
that it is a form of vinegar mixed with tonic.
Willy plans to sell the drink and other “adult” soft drinks in the pub
soon, which will be a welcome addition.
If the Flagon are to sell adult products they might want to enlist the
services of Dick the Hook who has well known expertise, professionally speaking
may I add, in that department.
One thing that is neither tasteful
or intriguing is the proliferation of charity street sellers that litter
Birmingham City Centre; it is like playing British bulldog walking down New
Street trying to dodge past them but they still try and accost you even when it
is obvious to all and sundry that you are making great efforts to navigate away
from them. Mind you, the only thing
worse than being stopped by these street sellers is not being stopped by them,
especially when you are the only person in their proximity, as it feels like an
affront. By not stopping you when you
walk past them they are effectively saying to you, “I’m not even going to
bother wasting my time approaching you pal as by the looks of it you haven’t
got a pot to p*ss in.” If the charities
want to place their staff on the streets, instead of bothering people for money
they may be better employed approaching passers-by who are clearing in need and
offering them assistance, e.g. “ee are mate, let’s go and buy you a new coat
because frankly the one you are wearing is a complete disgrace and if you are
waiting for it to come back into fashion then don’t bother as it was never in
fashion in the first place and we both know that if you try and wash it to
remove the filth and grime that the coat will perish in the process.” So that’s the Lowlife lowdown on charity, next week: no faith, lost hope, all
matters religious and Pope on a rope.
© Dominic Horton, October 2013.
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