Friday, 11 March 2011

Return of the eez, part two

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, in order to have any hope of knowing 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.

To continue,

The photographer looked at us and said, “right, let’s have the pair of you over there in the corner.”

Gertrie and I walked to the corner.

“Okay, Gertie, I want you to give me the thumbs-up with your left hand and point at eez’s crotch with your right hand.”

Gertie looked at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Thanks, Gertie. Now, eez, drop your trousers.”

I looked at the photographer. “I’m not dropping my trousers! If the wife sees the photo I’ll be back in fucking hospital!”

“Sixty pounds?” she offered.

“I’m not dropping my trousers for anything less than one hundred pounds.”

“Eighty pounds?”

“Okay.” I dropped my trousers.

She took two photographs, packed her camera away and went to leave.

I stopped her.

“Where’s the money?” I asked.

She begrudgingly handed me eighty pounds.

“Where’s the rest?”

“The rest?” she queried.

“Yeah, the other eighty pounds.”

“Another eighty pounds? How do you work that out?”

I stared at her. “We agreed forty pounds for the photo and eighty pounds to drop the trousers. I dropped my trousers once and you took two photos. So, forty pounds per photo, which equals eighty, plus the eighty for dropping the strides, which comes to a total of one hundred and sixty pounds.”

“Bullshit!” she shouted.

“Barty,” I called, “do you have a minute?”

Barty stood up, banged his head on the ceiling and walked over.

I introduced the photographer to Barty, saying, “this is my agent, please discuss the matter with him.”

She gave me another eighty and stomped off.

Looking at Barty, I asked, “are you alright, Barty? You look a bit off colour.”

“I don’t think that notebook I ate earlier agreed with me, eez. Do you think it had a leather cover?”

It’s a long story, but, when he was twelve, Barty’s parents put him on a vegetarian diet in an attempt to stop him growing—it didn’t work, but, over the years, he’s decided that any animal product is potentially lethal.

Barty is, in fact, the largest vegetarian in the country and there have been several medical papers written about him.

Being so large, he needs to consume at least nine thousand calories a day; this is an awful lot of vegetables and one noted economist has stated that the government should have plans drawn up to cope with the effect that his death will have on the region’s arable farmers.

He farts a lot and has to have his septic tank emptied weekly.

After a few hours, the pub was almost full. Having been to the loo to make room for more ale, I weaved my way through the men to the bar.

Someone was sitting on my stool: “You’re sitting on my stool,”

“Piss off and stop annoying me,” he replied.

I called over to Gertie, who was desperately trying to keep up with the requests for drinks and asked for an ashtray.

“eez, you know you can’t smoke in here,” she answered, with a tray of drinks in her hand.

“I’m not going to smoke in here. Just give me an ashtray.”

She tossed a glass ashtray towards me.

I caught the ashtray, and whacked the guy with it.

I stepped over him and sat on my stool.

I looked at Gertie. “Are you okay, Gertie?”

“I can’t keep up with the drinks, eez, I’m all on my own.”

“Get Bhoppy, “I suggested.

“It’s two o’clock; it’s his afternoon prayer time,“ she replied.

“Leave it to me, I’ll get you some help.”

I made a couple of phone calls, offered some acquaintances of mine a tempting ten pounds an hour to work behind the bar, and five minutes later Lindsay and Hilda walked in.

“What are they doing here?” asked Gertie, sweating heavily and still serving drinks as though prohibition was to be introduced tomorrow.

“They’re here to help you.”

“Fucking hell, eez, Lindsay’s a lap dancer and Hilda’s a freelance masturbator!”

“Don’t worry, they won’t nick any trade from you.”

Bhoppy returned from his prayer session, nearly fainted when he saw the amount of customers in his pub, looked at Lindsay and Hilda and said, “dear Jesus, what are they doing behind my bar, now?”

“They,” I said, “are making you a fortune. Don’t moan about it. And at just twenty pounds an hour each, you’ve got a bloody good deal.”

“Twenty pounds an hour each?”

“Don’t say a word, Bhoppy. I’m not looking for thanks. I was honest with them and said that you simply couldn’t afford the twenty-five an hour they wanted. I’ve already paid them and they’ll be here ‘til eleven tonight. Have you got the three hundred and twenty on you?”

A further two hours later, Bhoppy was back at my side, “eez, these greedy bastards are going to drink the place dry. I’ve only got enough booze to last another thirty minutes and it’s only five o’clock.”

“Bhoppy, I’ll sort it out,” I said and went to find somewhere quiet to make the phone call.

I stopped, turned around, looked at Bhoppy and said, ”you’re not speaking with an Irish accent anymore. I want free drinks for the next week or I’ll tell everyone you’re a fraud.”

“A week? No bloody way!” he answered.

I walked up to him, “listen, my conkers have brought in more customers today than you’ve managed to bring in over the last six months.”

“Okay,” he agreed.

I made a call and within forty minutes seventeen barrels of beer were in Bhoppy’s cellar. They’d been stolen from the Kings Head earlier in the week and were half price. The guy, who nicks the beer, steals it from certain pubs in a strict order.

Basically, a pub gets done over, say, on week one of the schedule and then on, say, week four will be offered a load of half price beer that’s been stolen from another pub. The landlords always accept the offer and see it as least some compensation for the loss they’d suffered earlier.

The bloke who carries out this illegal, but, nevertheless, desirable business plan has never been to school, never been poor and never been caught.

The demand for drinks eased and Gertie went to the stockroom to catch up with a backlog of side orders.

Bhoppy decided to make a speech.

He stood on a table and called for everyone’s attention. “Gentlemen, my brothers, to day we are indeed blessed, now. For today we stand in the presence of the Lord himself, eez and eez’s testicles. Please raise your glasses to all four of them!”

Everyone raised their glasses and cheered loudly.

“Now,” said Bhoppy, “let us pray.”

Someone kicked the table and Bhoppy fell off.

As closing time approached, the pub was still more than half full. Suddenly, the front door flew open and six policemen ran in. They were wearing riot gear.

The officer in charge shouted, “Get out! Get out now!”

Moments later a Bison came crashing through a window.

“It’s too late!” the officer screamed as he and his men ran to the back door, heading for the bomb shelter.


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