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 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 sat in the waiting room with the cutlery still embedded in my shoulder and thigh.
A man, who’d been smoking outside, sat next to me.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
I turned to him: “Guess.”
He looked at the knife and fork and nodded.
I looked closely at the guy. I don’t know what he’d smoked outside, but whatever it was, it was good; he was totally biftered.
He stood up, yawned and, without warning, pulled the knife from my leg.
“Shit!” I screamed. The pain was awful.
As I clutched my leg, he extracted the fork and wandered off. It wasn’t as painful as the knife, but it still hurt like fuck.
A minute later he returned wearing a white coat and gave me two plasters.
“If the wounds start looking a bit iffy or start smelling, go and see your usual doctor.”
I limped into the Dog and Donkey, waved at Barty and asked Gertie for a large whisky.
She gave me the drink and asked for the money.
I told her to knob off. It was now my pub. I’d already paid for the stuff. Damned if I was going to pay twice.
A guy walked in, went to the other end of the bar and mumbled something to Gertie. She gave him his drink.
“Gertie, who’s the new bloke?”
“Don’t know. I think he’s foreign.”
“I think I’ll go and welcome him to my pub.”
I strolled up. “Hello mate. You new in town?”
“Thou can fuck off, or I’ll kick thee int’ bollocks.”
“I thought you northerners were supposed to be a friendly bunch?”
“I’ve told thee, fuck off.”
I called for my Head of Security.
Proudly wearing his security badge, Barty walked over and asked what I wanted.
“Please escort this person from my pub.”
“Why? I can’t throw him out without knowing all the facts. As Head of Security, I need to be thorough in my enquiries.”
“Barty, you’re a bouncer, not Hercule fucking Poirot. Now, get rid of the bastard.”
Looking miffed, Barty picked up the northerner.
“Wait a minute…”
I was too late. The guy was on the pavement outside.
“The doors, Barty. How many times have I told you?”
“Go and get some more doors.”
I wasn’t happy. It was the third set of doors that week. At £300 each, Barty was proving expensive to employ.
Suddenly, the northerner flew back in and landed a few feet from us.
“Who threw that at me?” shouted Bluto from the doorway.
“I did! Got a problem with that?” replied Barty
Oh Christ, I thought, if those two got fighting there’d be nothing left of the place.
“Calm down you two. This bloke’s not looking too good.”
We looked down at him.
“Bluto was the last to throw him,” said Barty.
“He was already dead when I threw him! Don’t blame me!”
The northerner jumped up and leapt at Barty’s back, just managing to get his arms round Barty’s neck.
Not sure what to do next, Barty looked at me.
I told him to just fall backwards.
“I might hurt myself. It’s a long way to fall.”
“Just do it, Barty.”
He fell backwards.
“Did you hear those cracking noises?” asked Bluto.
“Do you think he looks a bit flat?” said Barty, looking at the man on the floor, “I don’t think he’s breathing.”
We called for Gertie.
Gertie looked down at him: “He’s a funny shape, isn’t he?”
“See if he's breathing,” I told her.
Moaning, she bent down and put her ear to the guy’s mouth.
“He’s breathing, but it’s a bit wheezy.”
“You’d be wheezy if Barty fell on you,” said Bluto.
“I’ll check his pulse,” she said, opening his flies.
We turned round to let Gertie get on with it.
“His pulse is okay and judging by his reactions, his blood pressure seems fine.”
“Right, zip him up. Barty go and get some doors and don’t hang about. Bluto, throw the guy out again and make sure he’s face down. We’ve got no more than thirty minutes.”
An ambulance arrived and then, shortly after, the police arrived.
The police asked a few questions:
“Have you seen this man before?”
“Why didn’t you notice him laying on the floor?”
“Too busy putting up the new doors. The old one’s were broken last night.”
“No, vandals. Not enough officers pounding the beat.”
“You know nothing about him and don’t recognise him, then?”
“He’s face down. He groaned something. I think he’s foreign.”
“Oh, one of those. They take our jobs and now they’re taking our hospital beds. Fuckers.”
“You’re entitled to your views, I suppose,” I said, looking at the revolting person in front of me.
Corky turned up.
“You okay, eez?”
“Yes sergeant. One of your officers was just telling me his views on some members of our community. I think he’s asked all the questions he needs to ask and is leaving now.”
Corky looked at me: “That guy had taken a right pounding.”
“I know. Poor sod. Not enough of you lot pounding, is there Corky?”
“Ignore what that officer said, eez. We’re not all like that. He’s an arsehole.”
He got in his car, saying, “if you think he’s bad, you should meet his brother from up North.”