Lowlife 63 – A Costly Hammer Blow

A Costly Hammer Blow

By Dominic Horton

I have noticed recently that it is becoming increasingly difficult to ponce a fag.  So many people have forsaken smoking in favour of electronic nicotine pipes that the circulation of cigarettes proper is becoming increasingly rare in pub life.   The former Australian cricket captain Allan Border once allegedly said that he smokes one fag a fortnight and I am in the Border camp, albeit that on average I have a puff much less than once every two weeks.  I can often go for months without smoking a cigarette but just occasionally I enjoy standing outside the Flagon & Gorses on Islington and watching the world go by, tab on.  But I am not going to take the extreme measure of buying my own fags when I have got this far in life poncing them off dedicated smokers so it is a little churlish of my fellow Flagoners protecting their health and wellbeing by switching to electronic pipes, to the detriment of my occasional, crafty pleasure.  

Cradley Town FC's Badge complete

 with hammers

So effectively I have given up smoking by default, though Fudgkins and Harry Gout might beg to differ and they remain pipeless and are still willing to crash a fag given their generous natures.  Even Mother Teresa (who has tried to become fagless a number of times in the past) has taken the fag pipe route but she has yet to file a report on her progress with the Lowlife news desk. 

The etiquette around electronic fag pipes is still developing and in terms of whether to use them indoors in public places people can often seem a little unsure of themselves, like Bambi unsteady on his feet emerging into the world.  I am not 100% sure what the rules are in the Flagon but fag pipe users seem to still pop outside to get their fix but that is probably accounted for by their desire to get away from me for five minutes or so.   All of the offices at my workplace are glass walled and I saw a bloke in another room across the way having a surreptitious toke on a fag pipe a couple of weeks ago and while he was not doing any harm to his colleagues that were in situ I instinctively thought that it didn't sit right as in the office environment it fell short of being professional.  That said I have no firm views on the matter either way.  In fact there are plenty of things that I do not have strong opinions on and sometimes I have no opinion at all. 

Allan Border showing how many fags he has

a fortnight

The prevalence of radio phone-ins, social media and television debate shows seems to have made us a very opinionated population indeed and people are often quick to tell you what they think of a particular issue even if you do not have the slightest interest in their views.  Sometimes when Flagoners are deliberating some point of order or other they will ask me, “what do you think?” and when I reply, “I have no opinion on the matter” they look at me with great puzzlement, as if I had just told them that I have turned teetotal and joined the Temperance Society. 

Becoming boozeless might not be such a bad idea as my judgement must have been clouded by something this week when I made the foolish and ultimately costly mistake of acting upon a plumbing tip from Willy Mantitt, of all people.  Taking advice from Mantitt on any subject is fraught with danger and enhances the chances of financial loss, or a mishap of some description occuring, and an expert on anything practical Willy is most assuredly not.  The matter at hand was my attempt to dislodge my mangled toilet seat, an act which was being severely hampered by the fact that the screws had rusted and refused to budge even once they were awash with WD40. Those of you that I am acquainted with will know that I am more of a brandy man than a handy man and that challenges of this nature are anathema to me but I was determined to liberate the injured seat from the karsi. 

I found myself corresponding with Mantitt by email to get an update on the Oscar Pistorius trial (which Willy has been following diligently) when I happened to mention the toilet seat conundrum.  Willy advised me to tap the screws with a hammer to cause vibrations which will in turn help to dislodge the screws.  Having no feasible alternatives, and being in a state of increasing desperation due to my dear son Kenteke's impending visit, I acted on Mantitt's suggestion and gingerly tapped the screws with a hammer.  No success.  I hit the screws a little harder with the hammer but still to no avail.   Rising frustration lead me to abandon the gingerly tack in favour of a more forceful approach and having previously worn the shirt of Cradley Town FC in my footballing days I heeded their motto of “Gi' it some 'ommer.”  Like most of the matches I played for Cradley the action ended up in defeat as to my horror a number of cracks emerged in the porcelain and the karsi sprang a leak when it was flushed, which was not the outcome that I had envisaged.   To add insult to injury I realised that I needed a number two and I couldn't even retreat to the Flagon to have a sit down given the earliness of the hour. 

King George V (on the left) in 

"A Conversation Piece at Aintree" by

W R Sickert

It was a case of SOS t*rd alert and fortunately a sympathetic plumber scrambled his equivalent of Ghost Busters who sped to Codger Mansions, red lights flashing, in express fashion.  The plumber and his mate really were a crack squad and dealt with the job like a SWAT mission.  The plumber hastily surveyed the damage to the karsi and provided an expedient and concise expert assessment, “Your bog is f*cked mate.”  He went on to say that a whole new toilet was needed and I asked if he could not just replace the part that was broken but the plumber explained, “you are joking mate, this toilet is older than God's dog so there will be no chance in finding the part in question.” 

The plumber's mate set about ripping out the toilet while the plumber sped up to B&Q to acquire a new one; on his return the plumber had the new karsi fitted in 20 minutes flat and that was that.  If karsi fitting doubles was an Olympic sport these boys would undoubtedly be gold medal winners.   After I had crossed the plumber's palms with silver (in what turned out to be a very reasonably priced transaction) it was straight to the new addition to Codger Mansions to give it a much needed test run. 

I told Mantitt that his plumbing tip resulted in a disaster that lead to me in parting with a number of shekels but Willy is no stranger to litigation and is more slippery that a greased up eel and he quickly abdicated himself of all responsibility.  What comes around goes around as a few days later his boiler packed up which left him having to part with two large, which is a tidy sum but given all of the shadowy deals he has on the go it is mere small change to him.  

As well as a fully working karsi I am glad to report that my health has (more or less) been restored this week after my bout of suffering from mild-graines, tinnitus and generally being in a less than optimum state which for once was not an ailment caused by ingesting the wares of Mr Ping, the chef at the Rhareli Peking Chinese takeaway.  If fact my crony the Pirate, the frolicsome landlord at the Flagon & Gorses, told me that his health seems to be on the up after he has improved his dietary regime and kicked the habit of eating half a dozen cream cakes every day; the Pirate is naughty but not necessarily nice.  A healthier diet must have accounted for the Pirate’s lower blood pressure and cholesterol as it could not be explained by exercise given that he is more sedentary than a crippled mannequin.

Mind you, it might be wise for me to lay off abusing the Pirate (verbally that is) as after the recent keen trim of his beard and hair (such that is left of it) he was accused by The Coarse Whisperer and Harry Stottle of looking like King George V; if I am not careful the Pirate might get Chilli Willy to mince me up and add me to his swan pâté to be eaten unwittingly by Flagoners who try the regal foodstuff for novelty value.

Despite being a renown heavy smoker King George V was most likely never reduced to poncing fags in the bar room of a public house in the West Midlands but like the rest of high ranking royalty he did survive by sponging off the state whereas the Pirate is more likely to be sponging off the state of his sweatshirt after spilling his tea down it.  Besides, the Pirate is not a royalist but a republican.  And, of course, a publican.   He is lots of other things as well, but as aforementioned I had better refrain from defaming him too much at present so I will have to get back to it next week.

© Dominic Horton, March 2014.

* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.