Tuesday, 12 April 2011


The following is merely intended to be a fictitious, humorous story.

Most stories in this blog carry something of a ‘social message’.

No story is intended to be judgemental.

Some readers may find content offensive, but there is little that one wouldn’t find in a post-watershed sitcom.

The building of my empire came to an abrupt end. It had crumbled around me.

Permission to be a Police Community Support Officer was rescinded and I was told to never again apply for such a position. Losing my law enforcement capabilities did not unduly bother me.

I had been named in over seven hundred civil action lawsuits. Plaintiffs were claiming damages totalling more than three million pounds. This did not unduly bother me.

My license to sell alcohol at the Dog and Donkey had been revoked. This annoyed the fuck out of me.

Throughout, I’d maintained a state of non-sobriety, but, in those brief, halcyon weeks of empire building, I had been neither bored nor retired.

As I sat at the kitchen table, with the wife glaring at me, my only concern was: would I still be able to get a drink at the Dog and Donkey?

“You’re a thorough disgrace!” the wife shouted across the table.

“You’re a thorough cretin. Now, stop shouting, I’m trying to think.” I replied.

“Don’t you care?”

“About you? Couldn’t give a shit, really.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” she bellowed, “I meant about you being on the front pages of the newspapers!”

“I’m on the front page? Is there a photo of me?”

She threw some newspapers at me and left the kitchen.

I looked at the photo. Not bad, I thought to myself, not bad at all. The banana yellow suit always brings out the best in me.

Standing outside the Dog and Donkey, looking at the fine establishment I once ran, I considered my options.

I was in the rare position of owning the pub, but not actually being allowed into it due to an annoying court order that prevented me from going within one hundred yards of the building.

I looked up and down the street. The only threat seemed to be a traffic warden slowly approaching as he noted down car registrations. I hadn’t seen this particular warden since I’d told him he’d been born with horseshit between his ears.

As he came closer, I smiled at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

“Why not?”

“There’s an injunction in place that prevents you from coming within one hundred yards of this pub.”

“What place?”


“Where’s this place that has the injunction?” I asked.

“No, you don’t understand; the injunction has been placed on you.”

“I don’t think it has.” I said, starting to search my pockets.

“No.” He said. “Not on you, but, well, on you…what I mean is, the court has an injunction on you.”

“So, the court’s got it.”

“No! The court made the injunction!”

“Well, if the court went to the effort of making it, it’s likely the court wanted to keep it. I’m a bit like that with my remote controlled submarines; I don’t like anyone else getting their hands on them.”

I gave him my best stupid look.

“You’re still not supposed to be here.” He repeated.

“And you’ve still got bowel contents for brains.”

“I could have you arrested!”

“Look,” I said, “this is not the Dog and Donkey to which you’re referring. This Dog and Donkey is a Vietnamese takeaway. The pub with the same name is on the other side of town.”

“That’s nonsense!”

“If you don’t believe me, go inside and find out for yourself.” I kindly suggested.

“I will!”

He walked through the entrance doors.

A few seconds later, the doors opened, he flew over my head and landed in a heap on the other side of the street.

Barty poked his head out the doors. “How was that one, eez?”

“Barty, it’s not the velocity that’s the problem, it’s the trajectory. Forty five degrees is what you’re aiming for.”

“Okay, eez, I’ll give it another go.” He replied, walking towards the unconscious warden.

“Don’t bother now, Barty, I need a drink.”

I stood at the bar and asked Gertie for a large whisky and soda with a Jack Daniels chaser.

“eez,” she said, “I’d be breaking the law if I sold you alcohol.”

I studied her. Gertie and I go back a long way and I’m one of the few people that has never criticised her oral freelancing. Gobbling Gertie has always been my friend.

“So,” Gertie continued, “we’ve had a collection for you and have raised over two thousand pounds towards an ‘eez drinks fund’. By my reckoning, you won’t have to pay for a drink for at least six days, which means I don’t have to sell you anything. Cheers!”

She put my drink in front of me. I felt quite emotional.

“Thank you, Gertie. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me, which should give you an indication of the piss poor life I’ve led.”

“eez, it’s a pleasure. And you might want to buy Barty a drink or two from that fund.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He refuses to accept that you’re no longer in charge of this place and has thrown out anyone that’s said otherwise.”

“Yeah, I thought the doors looked new. Okay, give him whatever he wants for the next couple of days and take it from the fund.”

“By the way,” I said, “you won’t get in trouble with the new license holder, will you?”

Gertie laughed. “eez, he’s married. On his first day I took him into the stockroom and showed him how things could be. You’ll have no problems with him.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to risk what you’ve got going here.”

“Don’t be daft, eez. I’m a grown up girl. I can hold my own.”

“Do you still do that?”

She ignored me.

Barty came to the bar. He didn’t look very happy.

“What’s up Barty?” I asked.

“Well, eez, it’s a bit awkward.”

“Barty, just tell me.”

“The flat above the pub, is it still alright for me and my dad to stay there?”

“Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? I said you could stay there for as long as you want.”

“Honestly?” Barty asked.

“Yep, honestly.”

Barty stood up. “Right, I’m going to throw something at the council offices.”

He ran out the pub.

“eez,” Gertie said, “the council told Barty the flat was unfit for human habitation.”

“Unfit for human habitation? The flat is fine, they’re talking bollocks.”

Gertie looked at me, “His dad’s Alzheimer’s is getting worse.  Have you been in the flat recently? There’s more shite up the walls than there’s ever been down the toilet. Barty can’t keep up with the cleaning.”

She gave me another drink.

“Gertie, if you take into account drinks for Barty over the next couple of days and a few drinks for me, what does that leave in the ‘eez drinks fund’?”

“Piss all, really.”

“In that case,” I said, “you can pay for the cleaner and the private nurse I’m about to arrange for Barty and his dad.”

“You can knob off, eez! I don’t mind doing my bit, but there’s no way I can afford that kind of money! At the moment I’ve got a dose of thrush and a loose tooth; there’s no way I can take on more work!”

“Just take it from your bank account and stop bloody whining about it.” I told her.

“There isn’t any money in my account.”

“There is.” I answered, “I put some in this morning.”

(Obviously, there’s more to come, but I’m going to stop saying ‘to be continued’ or ‘part one’. I’m sure you’ve got the idea by now)

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