The craic(not a euphemism) was quite literally arse-clenching.
Foggy rambled on in intimate detail for at least an hour on the intricacies of his bowel action,well to be frank the problem being the apparent drought of the required regular evacuation.
Compo and Clegg shifted increasingly uneasily in their seats,the ales going down with distinct lack of usual verve due to the unwelcome graphic conversation.
At several points both politely tried to shift the topic of discussion:
'my tomato skins are particularly thick this year, due to slow growth, a direct result of the lack of sunshine I imagine....'
But Foggy stuck to his subject with dogged determination,at regular intervals the other two contributing only the odd 'mmhmmm.....mmhmm...'
Finally the protracted and predominantly one sided conversation culminated in the comment:
'After all these years spent sitting on the toilet,I've finally come to realise that its just not worth it'
There was a momentary silence..followed by a thoughtful slurp of their pints,whilst the other two no doubt pondered what momentous event had eventually prompted Foggys' 'lightbulb' moment..
'Whys that?'said Clegg..
'Well,years ago someone told me that I had to go every day,so every day I've sat straining(for the most part unproductively I might add..),now all I do is eat a couple of bananas and go every other day..'
The accompanying shake of his head conveyed the depth of his regret at a lifetime of futile,fruitless pot sitting.
I wonder what age it is you get to when all the usual conversational propriety goes out of the window and what's really important becomes crystal clear?
I suppose that's the age that time itself becomes the valuable commodity,hence the regret.
As Chef says 'plenty of time to to sleep when you die...'
It was the last of the summer Bank Holidays today,the weather provided its usual support,though I did tweet we had some new and exceptionally large garden parasols which would brave the storm.
As usual we managed to attract a couple of 'miserables'.
Not long after opening The Blonde swept through the kitchen door with usual gusto:
'The bloke on table 4 is an absolute f***wit,I swear Biff,he IS ONLY HERE TO COMPLAIN'
'Just like you're sole purpose is to take that door off its hinges..'said Chef without even glancing up from the stove...
'Its OK Ill go out and check on him' I say placatingly...
I approached the table wearing my best winning smile,cloth draped over my arm Fawlty style.
The sight of someone
'Is everything allright for you there?'
'Yes.....yes i suppose so'
'Are you sure?' (Come on give me your best shot)
'Well actually my wife's duck is overcooked and the skin is dried to a crisp'
I glanced at the lovely Confit duck leg on the plate,skin perfectly crisp and golden,pink tender flesh falling apart beneath and and wondered how the fark it could be improved by serving rare.
|Duck legs in the process of being ruined due to overcooking|
'Oh,the duck leg is cooked very slowly(as specified on the menu) for around four hours,in goose fat,its not like duck breast which can be served medium rare,were we to serve duck leg rare I'm afraid it would be ..well...chewy..'
'Well,if you say so'
There was no gratuity.
Later,I managed to set someone's coat on fire.
We were just coming to the end of the Bank Holiday
'BIFF, THERE'S A FIRE IN THE CONSERVATORY,CAN YOU DEAL??? I'M DOING SOMEONE'S BILL..'
Reader,you may remember my previous form when it comes to items of a combustible nature..
|These are Jubilee Beacons not the actual fire|
The sight of two foot high flames licking up from behind the wooden bench was fairly dramatic in a provincial pub setting,though not of Towering Inferno proportions.I managed to heroically beat them down with my trusty carrying cloth in an efficient fly swatting motion. It was quite satisfying and I was quite pleased with myself until the unmistakeable chemical smell of burning rubber wafted up ones nostrils and the customer whose initial demeanour had been one of relief visibly changed:
'Its really dangerous to have candles on a windowsill,yes on a table, but on a windowsill?? NO!'
As if to underline the absurdity of it all she picked up the offending candle and placed it decisively in the centre of the table.
'There' Glaring at me.
What do you say to someone whose coat is a shrivelled blackened mess,still smouldering with fine will-o-the-wisp tendrils of stinking smoke wafting upwards?
I offered to replace the coat..
'Did you check the brand?' said the Cynical One
'I mean are we talking Primani here or Barbour???'
'I'm not sure...it didn't look expensive...'
'Biff, wake up and smell the coffee,you're far too trusting, go and ask to see the label so you know what you're dealing with,tell them its like for like..'
'I don't think they'll rip me off,they come in quite often..'
'Well,don't say I didn't warn you..' The Cynical One raised her eyebrows in disbelief and walked off.I could hear her tut tutting as she went.
Chef is yet to be informed of the compensation payment..
Much later, one of me favourite regulars,the local fire chief, popped in for a pint.He had already been furnished with full details(no doubt embellished) of the fire incident by the time I appeared at the bar.
'There's only two things I wouldn't entertain in my house' he said solemnly..
(why is everyone shaking their head at me today???)
'What's that then' I say
'Candles and tumble dryers.. responsible for the majority of domestic fires''
Well that's it then,its the washing line all the way from now on....
In other news, remember yonks ago I was receiving a spate of incorrectly addressed post?
Well today this arrived..
|From MPW perhaps?|
Someone's playing funny buggers again...