Just a couple of days ago, a group of our beloved types leapt onto the local bus and headed out into the wild blue somewhere in search of some action. Action in the form of purchasing stuff that can only be found in the bigger joints around town. Like limoncello which is rather nice. And spudniks and semi-skinned moo juice. Yes we know, spudniks and semi-skinned moo-juice are available in most purveyor’s places even Mr Singh’s Convenience Shop and Off-Licence but one doesn’t turn one’s nose up at a genuine bargain price, does one? No.
Any road up, as they say in these and other parts, such was the unfettered joy amongst the party over their bargain hunting for spudniks and semi-skinned moo juice that they decided to head for a celebratory glass of Corporation Pop. Striding out, without the aid of an aforementioned bus, they strode out and made base-camp at a local hostelry. This was, let us tell you, the sort of local hostelry much frequented by the old-boys, who on Festiveness Day will be knocking twice on the back door for a sneaky shandy. Word was sausage rolls will be available but we won’t be availing of those given that it’s the old-boys territory and not ours.
Our party of happy revellers, replete with grocery provisions, headed for suitable seating, some of which had matching upholstery, to enjoy their Corporation Pop given that Limoncello, as pleasant as it is, would have been unavailable in such a place as this. Even to the two knock old-boys in their flat-caps and woolly mufflers. No garishness here, just a faint smell of ‘hard knocks experience’ and life lived. No ice and no lemon.
Over the conversations of churkey and footie and life lived bus journeys and Ray Winstone offering “rait goowd odds on’t next scoorah on’t telly”, the tap-tap-tap of a donimoes game filled the air. Competitive donimoes. Very competitive. Voices were being raised, insults exchanged and threats made. Over donimoes. Back in the days of black and white, the piano player would have stopped tinkling and the bar-tender (who would be suitably attired in a striped waistcoast) would have pulled down the shutters to protect the sasparilla and painting of a scantilly clad mine hostess. Not here though, just two knock old-boys raising voices and hurling abuse over a game of donimoes. In flat-caps and woolly mufflers. A slap and a flat-cap lay on the floor followed by silence. The game resumed as if the few seconds had never happened and the tap-tap-tap continued. So did Ray Winstone unfortunately.