Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Barty, Battleaxes and Bombs

Some people have told me that they can’t make any sense of this blog.

Firstly, I can’t make much sense of it either. Secondly, to fully understand what’s going on, you need to start with the very first post.

The first post is called ‘Family’ and can be found in the month of February in the BLOG ARCHIVE section to the right. Read that and then read the next one above it. Continue doing this until you’ve either had enough or have reached the latest post…or you can go for a lucky dip approach and just click on any of the titles in the archive.

I was sitting at the table, with my arms crossed, looking at the missus. She was reading the paper.

“Are you going out today?” I asked.


“Not going round a friends?”


“Staying in, then?”

She looked at me. “I’m trying to read a story about a woman who found her lost tortoise after five years. Be quiet.”

“Five years? What’s surprising about that? They live for two hundred years. Did she think it had run away, or something? It’s probably taken five years for it to go from one side of the woman’s garden to the other.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m going to have a bath.”

Again she looked at me. “You’ve just had a shower.”

“I know, but I’ve got a bad back. I thought a bath might help.”

“What was in that package? You’ve got another one, haven’t you?”

Sitting in the bath, I looked down. What a beauty.

At twelve inches long and three inches wide, it was the biggest so far.

Come on…come on…yes! Elvis has left the building!

Two torpedoes sped towards the sponge, and…that’s a hit! Sayonara sponge!

Later, in the Dog and Donkey, several guys gathered round to have a look at the latest addition to my submarine collection: fully remote controlled, full manoeuvring capabilities, working torpedoes and working periscope.

Gertie walked over, looked at he sub, shook her head and walked away. “By the way Bluto, you still owe me for last week.”

As already mentioned, Bluto’s knob is bigger than a baby’s arm. We looked at Bluto.

“Ah, come on guys. My date was mugged on the way over here. I’d built up a head of steam.”

“I’m looking for someone called Barty,“ a voice behind us said.

We turned to look at him.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Sergeant Corker. I’m a police officer.”

“Then you can piss off. And if you find Barty, don’t let him eat your notebook; the last one made him ill.”

“It’s alright, I’m off duty.”

“I don’t care if you’re on duty or not on duty, you can still piss off.”

He looked at me. “I need his help.”

I have to admit that he looked worried. I was about to say something when the officer said, “hey, that’s a US, Typhoon class, hunter-killer submarine. Not bad, not bad at all.”

“You know your subs, buddy. Grab a drink and I’ll see if I can help you with Barty.”

It appeared that Corky had been suspended from duties pending the outcome of an inquiry into an allegation of dereliction of duty. The apparent dereliction of duty had occurred in the pub on the night of the ‘Celebration’ when the wives had turned up with their axes.

“Ah, that’s where I recognise you from. You’re the riot copper that was in charge.”


“But how can anyone blame you for running? Haven’t they seen the wives in this town?”

“Apparently not. Like me, the new Chief, doesn’t know the area. I’ve been suspended and it looks like I’m going to lose my job. The wife’s going to fucking kill me when she finds out.”

“So, why do you need Barty?”

“I’m told he makes Conan the Barbarian look like a pussy. I figured if he told the inquiry what that night was like and why he wouldn’t stand his ground either, they might have a bit more sympathy.”

“I knew the old Chief. He was shite at poker. I didn’t know there was a new one now. What’s his name?” I asked.

“Jerry Springer.”

I looked at the guy.

“No, honestly, that’s his name.”

At that moment, Barty walked in. Corky looked at him and said, “bloody hell! That has to be Barty.”

“Yeah, that’s him, but don’t talk to him. When he finds out you’re a copper, he’ll throw you through a window. He’s a bit cranky. And he’s a vegetarian.”

“Vegetarian? Right.” Corky looked nervous. “My wife’s a vegetarian.”

Barty joined the crowd looking at my submarine.

I called Gertie over and asked for another couple of drinks.

“Springer’s a real bastard.“ Corky continued. “Everything by the book with him. Slightest hint of impropriety and you’re out. He goes to church, you know. I bet he even keeps his vest on when he’s shagging.”

“No he doesn’t,” said Gertie.

Corky and I looked at Gertie.

“You’re talking about Jerry Springer the copper, yes?” she asked.

We nodded.

“He doesn’t leave his vest on. He likes to be tied up with duct tape and have his arse spanked with a flipper, I think they call them swim fins these days, while breathing through a snorkel.”

“You know Chief Springer?” Corky asked.

“Yep, me and Spanky Springer go back a long way.”

Suddenly, the pub emptied, leaving Corky and me.

“Job done, then.” I said to Corky. “Just mention Gobbling Gertie to him. You’ll probably get a promotion. Gertie’s a good old girl.”

Gertie gave us our drinks.

“Gertie, what the hell is that?” I enquired, looking at my pint glass with something in the bottom of it.

“That’s a cocktail, eez. It’s half a pint of lager and half a pint of cider with a glass of Tia Maria resting in the bottom. You have to dink it in one. It’s on the house if you can drink it in one go.”

Never one to refuse a challenge, I downed it in one. “Jesus H Christ, Gertie! That’s got some balls to it! What’s it called?”

“It’s called a depth charge.”

“How come it’s on the house?”

“Barty’s broke your submarine.”

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