strangedays

Hullo chaps! Today I visited the local Public House to watch the final Rugby Union match of 2008, between some London comprehensive school with bad accents, and a nameless squad of Leicester mormons. The game was okay and the cockney Londoners won, but that is not the point of my tale; nor do I aim to harp more than momentarily on the loss of gentlemanly glamour from the Beautiful game. Where have Eton and Rugby gone? Squeezed out by the antipodean beast, I have no doubt...

The point of my post is to regale you, dear reader, with tales of horror and confusion from the confines of the Public House. When I arrived all was still and quiet, a couple of charming old codgers were nursing their Ales, and the landlord - a good Irish chap, though a tad young to be a landlord I do say - was more than willing to arrange a viewing of the aforementioned match. But at about the 20 minute mark, the most unusual couple entered - a fast-talking Irishman and his cockney friend ("mate", I suppose one would say in the local lingo). They sat near me and maintained a mostly unintelligible patois for the next 20 minutes, though at one point I did hear the cockney chap say something to the tune of

If you ain't makin' 100% markup you ain't got a livin'

which could perhaps go some distance to explaining the UK's current inflation problems. He struck me, too, as the type of tradesman who doesn't clean up behind himself after he has fixed you with his beady eye and demanded a 100% markup. Make of that what you will, dear reader. Nonetheless, I ignored him until another dazed-looking Republican came and sat near me - beneath the screen on which the Leicester mormons were slowly having their innards removed - and commenced staring blindly into space. This chap maintained perfect silence for 10 minutes or so, but by unfortunate coincidence our friendly publican (also Irish) was off collecting dirty glasses when the cockney lad (let us call him "Mr. Markup") demanded another drink. Upon discovering the landlord's absence, he volunteered to trouble his neighbours, asking loudly "where's the barman?" Feeling he was talking to the Irish man, I ignored our cockney interloper; but the Irishman stared into space unperturbed, so Mr. Markup demanded again to know the whereabouts of the Publican.

To this second query my Irish neighbour yelled "I dunno" and then added, very loudly, for good measure, "fuck's sake!!!" I think this might have some local meaning, akin to "please could you refrain from bothering me again, good sir?" Why he didn't just say the latter I shall never know. Nonetheless, this seemed to me a most excellent situation. Now I would have rugby and boxing for the price of a mere beer at the local! And sure enough, Mr. Markup took issue with the Irishman's request, and a short argument ensued. I was just bracing myself for a most excellent display of the kind of temper which has made our lower-classes the envy of the world, when Mr. Markup decided to totter off to use the facilities. In passing he staggered up to his Irish cousin, and there ensued the following fascinating conversation (held at very close range):

"arzzzhhh denozullllnag! Zherinovolldagaddzigulll! Arrrrrgadaszzzh!!"
"Ah? Sordizzzzanghaljidddddddad..."
"Aazzzjsssh!"

after which they shook hands and Mr. Markup staggered away to relieve himself. Apparently he had achieved peace in our time! If only they could send this fellow to the Middle East, many more would live in peace... as I did, able to return to the rugby free of the burden of protecting my three-piece from splatters of blood.

After Mr. Markup returned we had a good 5 minutes of peace; unfortunately - depending on one's view of these kinds of entertainments - there soon turned up a rough-looking couple, and a kerfuffle followed in which the pool table had to be moved to the middle of the floor. The couple revealed themselves as a square-featured Latvian chap and his willowy Russian lady-friend, "Magda" (pronounced "Maj-da"). The Latvian man and the Republican began a noisy game of pool, both pretending the other was a "hustler", when in fact it was clear that both of them were jockeying to win money from each other. While the game commenced, "Maj-da" distracted herself and me by dropping multiple objects under my stool, and struggling to find them.

So the time was whiled away ... for another 5 minutes, after which a doughty-looking Chinese chap wandered by, keeping something hidden under his coat and flashing it occasionally. Upon closer inspection, I realised he was attempting to sell copies of famous talkies to the gathered crowd - and some of these talkies were still in the cinema as we speak! I am sure I do not need to impress upon you, dear reader, how shocked I was at this flagrant illegality. I certainly made no effort to purchase any, though I do confess to flicking through his list of titles (purely for research purposes of course) with the aforementioned "Maj-da". And this is how I came to know her name, for as we were looking through them, her beau came over and declared

"I tell you now Maj-da, do not buy any of those movies, for all of them they are shit!"

followed by (in even more declarative tones)

"I tell you! Unless they are porn they are shit! He has some animal porn, it is very good! But everything else, I tell you it is shit!"

And so the man left, deflated, as Maj-da was certainly not going to be purchasing any of his talkies after receiving such damning reviews from her courtier. But the conversation did not end there! For, having left her to her devices for 5 minutes to play billiards, Maj-da's beau returned and demanded of her

"so! Did you buy any giraffe porn? Everything else he had is shit!"

Subsequent to this, a second cockney came to join Mr. Markup, accompanied by a very small vanity dog, which they proceeded to discuss (including its outfit, which apparently included sunglasses, because "these days no-one is cool unless they have sunglasses"), the London comprehensive won the rugby resoundingly, and I decided to return to my mansion before anything strange should occur. I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, dear reader, but I am inclined to think there isn't one. I think there is no morality of any sort to be gleaned from this story...