Bruno looked up from his glass and said, ‘What do you get for the man who has everything?’
‘Go on, tell me.’
‘Penicillin.’
It was worthy of a guffaw, I thought, and obliged.
Some commentators might like to contend that a pub is a microcosm of society. If that’s true of my pub, then God help society. It is a Wetherspoon’s outlet, of course, and would hardly bear comparison with the Woolpack. As a source for scriptwriters it might have its uses, though.
Eddie comes in regularly and has a natural humour that might at first be misunderstood. One day he lumbered in and slapped a friend on the back.
‘You were ******* drunk last night, you old ******.’
‘I wasn’t in last night.’
‘Oh, it must have been me then.’
There is plenty to laugh at if you feel superior to the follies and foibles of the human race. Ah, drink. It puzzles me that the government plans to ban smoking from pubs, but will continue to allow them to sell alcohol. Not to mention allowing them to open windows and doors wide on summer days so that customers can breathe in clouds of carbon monoxide
Not so long ago I watched a man sitting with a tin can in front of him. As I recall, it contained sausages and baked beans. He picked it up, held it to his lips and tried to drink from it. He tipped his head back as if draining the last drops of some precious liquid and replaced it on the table with a disappointed look on his face. He repeated this procedure several times until he leaned back so far he fell off his chair. Rather belatedly, but much to the disappointment of the spectators, he was asked to leave.
I remember a similar incident when someone’s sixth whiskey led him to believe that a pencil was a cigarette. Not surprisingly it proved somewhat difficult to light, but the man had to be admired for his perseverance. Mediaeval scholars often kept a skull on their desk, as a memento mori. That pencil is my memento ebriorum. (I’m not sure whether I’ve got that right, it being a long time since my lessons in Latin, although what I’ve just written has the smack of an ablative absolute.) I’ve got it - memento crapulae.
It’s not always funny of course. There are the helpless and hopeless cases that have to be supported to the door and poured onto the pavement; the irritating men bellowing with laughter and the hysterically shrieking women; the middle-aged men weeping with grief and calling for their lover to return – and can anyone lend them the price of another pint? The opinionated, the aggressive, the maudlin, the clumsy, the argumentative, the downright boring.
And then there’s me.
‘Go on, tell me.’
‘Penicillin.’
It was worthy of a guffaw, I thought, and obliged.
Some commentators might like to contend that a pub is a microcosm of society. If that’s true of my pub, then God help society. It is a Wetherspoon’s outlet, of course, and would hardly bear comparison with the Woolpack. As a source for scriptwriters it might have its uses, though.
Eddie comes in regularly and has a natural humour that might at first be misunderstood. One day he lumbered in and slapped a friend on the back.
‘You were ******* drunk last night, you old ******.’
‘I wasn’t in last night.’
‘Oh, it must have been me then.’
There is plenty to laugh at if you feel superior to the follies and foibles of the human race. Ah, drink. It puzzles me that the government plans to ban smoking from pubs, but will continue to allow them to sell alcohol. Not to mention allowing them to open windows and doors wide on summer days so that customers can breathe in clouds of carbon monoxide
Not so long ago I watched a man sitting with a tin can in front of him. As I recall, it contained sausages and baked beans. He picked it up, held it to his lips and tried to drink from it. He tipped his head back as if draining the last drops of some precious liquid and replaced it on the table with a disappointed look on his face. He repeated this procedure several times until he leaned back so far he fell off his chair. Rather belatedly, but much to the disappointment of the spectators, he was asked to leave.
I remember a similar incident when someone’s sixth whiskey led him to believe that a pencil was a cigarette. Not surprisingly it proved somewhat difficult to light, but the man had to be admired for his perseverance. Mediaeval scholars often kept a skull on their desk, as a memento mori. That pencil is my memento ebriorum. (I’m not sure whether I’ve got that right, it being a long time since my lessons in Latin, although what I’ve just written has the smack of an ablative absolute.) I’ve got it - memento crapulae.
It’s not always funny of course. There are the helpless and hopeless cases that have to be supported to the door and poured onto the pavement; the irritating men bellowing with laughter and the hysterically shrieking women; the middle-aged men weeping with grief and calling for their lover to return – and can anyone lend them the price of another pint? The opinionated, the aggressive, the maudlin, the clumsy, the argumentative, the downright boring.
And then there’s me.
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