A newly recovered Uncle Pete came into the bar last night and asked about N. I mentioned to Pete that I was about to text N when the mobile phone vibrated, and I got a text message. Ah, from N, in fact. I texted him back.
I vaguely said I'd ring him today to try and get some paint (Albany 6570, if you're interested), but after a restless night I decided that it could wait until next week. But, avoiding the revising of a pointless yet essential document I should be doing, another interior design conundrum raises its head (beech or medium brown?), and so I decide to text him. Trying to spell the first word, and the phone rings. It's N, with paint prices.
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence.
I don't often get angry, not really angry, but a month ago I had one of those weekends where I was spending about half of it working, and half of it in the pub, playing chess with M or G. I'd got there at 12.15, and OC was still there. OC had begun as a mate, someone who was in the pub three or four times a week and who had a very dry sense of humour which by passed some people. He drinks more than me, and mixes his drinks - Stella, Strongbow, Vodka, Bitter, Strongbow, XXXX, Vodka... - so that of an end of an evening he would be legless. He would literally fall over. This was inconvenient in a pub, a recipe for being thrown out of a club. On one occasion he even hit![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_bottles, after which he was sort-of barred. When I got down to the pub for the second time, about nine, he was still there, well oiled.
After last orders we walk down to the Bell&, and it's generally understood, by Superchef and G, that I'm going to lose him. This I fail to do, but I decide on a tactic of ignoring him once I get to the pub. It's one of those times I really just want to stare into my pint, be alone in a crowd, and not talk to nobody.
Do you want another drink? he asks.
I'm fine, I'm just having this and going, I say.
Are you sure?
Are you really sure?
How about a top shelf?
Whisky? Vodka?
Nos avail me nothing; he buys M, himself and me a glass of Schnapps.
No, thanks.
He then complains I'm being insufficiently cheerful and I tell him to fuck the fucking fuck off.
Jaws drop.
It shocked me almost as much, and I suspect by the end of the evening I was apologising. Triffic.
And then last night Curly was in the pub. He's not been dealt a great hand of cards - his mother's an alcohol and he was probably weened on larger. His first meal would have been a pack of crisps. He's been abused left right and centre and has grown up distinctly unadjusted. But, still.
I'll played him a couple of times at chess, and he hasn't come close to winning more than once, and he sits and watches M and me playing. I used to thrash M every time, but his game's improved no end, and he's more likely to beat me. I claim my brain is full.
From the sidelines Curley starts offering advice. I cough, meaningfully. He continues. I tell him it's bad enough his mum asking me questions about what Pink Floyd were called before they were called Pink Floyd when I played her girlfriend, without a piece by piece commentary. He tells me he can see what I'm doing. This is news to me, I'm searching for a tactic here. I tell him to hush. He keeps talking, suggesting a move to M. I point that M and I are playing and he can play the winner. Five minutes later, he moves one of M's pieces. I move it back. He moves it again. I start fuming at him, but part of me just won't quite let go.
Eventually he gets the message and leaves, just before I make a move that finally gets M in check mate after five games.
Curley? Curley, it's your game now...
Ah, he's gone.
Third time is enemy action.
I vaguely said I'd ring him today to try and get some paint (Albany 6570, if you're interested), but after a restless night I decided that it could wait until next week. But, avoiding the revising of a pointless yet essential document I should be doing, another interior design conundrum raises its head (beech or medium brown?), and so I decide to text him. Trying to spell the first word, and the phone rings. It's N, with paint prices.
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence.
I don't often get angry, not really angry, but a month ago I had one of those weekends where I was spending about half of it working, and half of it in the pub, playing chess with M or G. I'd got there at 12.15, and OC was still there. OC had begun as a mate, someone who was in the pub three or four times a week and who had a very dry sense of humour which by passed some people. He drinks more than me, and mixes his drinks - Stella, Strongbow, Vodka, Bitter, Strongbow, XXXX, Vodka... - so that of an end of an evening he would be legless. He would literally fall over. This was inconvenient in a pub, a recipe for being thrown out of a club. On one occasion he even hit
the_bottles, after which he was sort-of barred. When I got down to the pub for the second time, about nine, he was still there, well oiled.After last orders we walk down to the Bell&, and it's generally understood, by Superchef and G, that I'm going to lose him. This I fail to do, but I decide on a tactic of ignoring him once I get to the pub. It's one of those times I really just want to stare into my pint, be alone in a crowd, and not talk to nobody.
Do you want another drink? he asks.
I'm fine, I'm just having this and going, I say.
Are you sure?
Are you really sure?
How about a top shelf?
Whisky? Vodka?
Nos avail me nothing; he buys M, himself and me a glass of Schnapps.
No, thanks.
He then complains I'm being insufficiently cheerful and I tell him to fuck the fucking fuck off.
Jaws drop.
It shocked me almost as much, and I suspect by the end of the evening I was apologising. Triffic.
And then last night Curly was in the pub. He's not been dealt a great hand of cards - his mother's an alcohol and he was probably weened on larger. His first meal would have been a pack of crisps. He's been abused left right and centre and has grown up distinctly unadjusted. But, still.
I'll played him a couple of times at chess, and he hasn't come close to winning more than once, and he sits and watches M and me playing. I used to thrash M every time, but his game's improved no end, and he's more likely to beat me. I claim my brain is full.
From the sidelines Curley starts offering advice. I cough, meaningfully. He continues. I tell him it's bad enough his mum asking me questions about what Pink Floyd were called before they were called Pink Floyd when I played her girlfriend, without a piece by piece commentary. He tells me he can see what I'm doing. This is news to me, I'm searching for a tactic here. I tell him to hush. He keeps talking, suggesting a move to M. I point that M and I are playing and he can play the winner. Five minutes later, he moves one of M's pieces. I move it back. He moves it again. I start fuming at him, but part of me just won't quite let go.
Eventually he gets the message and leaves, just before I make a move that finally gets M in check mate after five games.
Curley? Curley, it's your game now...
Ah, he's gone.
Third time is enemy action.
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From:
no subject
I use my powers for good...
I didn't expand on the mother/Pink Floyd story.
I'm playing chess against her boyfriend and she comes to stand between us, tottering and swaying and trying to roll a cigarette whilst I try to concentrate on beating him.
Imagine a voice akin to Zippy's, but after ten pints of XXXX. "Aiv gor one for ya And ee"
"What?"
"What were Pink Floyd cord before they were cord Pink Floyd"
"I've no idea. The Pink Floyd?"
"Nah. What were Pink Floyd cord before they were cord Pink Floyd"
"I don't know, I might have known once, but I don't now."
"I got you there. What were Pink Floyd cord before they were cord Pink Floyd"
"I've no idea."
"They were cord ... um, ah, whatmacallit. They were cord... They ... What were Pink Floyd cord before they were cord Pink Floyd." [Asks boyfriend] "Sigma 6 and Pink Floyd Sound. You wouldn't forget that in a hurry."
"Well you did, you had to ask your boyfriend."
"Nah, you wouldn't forget that in a hurry."
She's holding her birthday party on 2 December in the pub; and has been telling us this since April or May. All the bar staff are inexplicably busy that night.
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Home-made soap
From:
Re: Home-made soap
Of course, I didn't even write about M's mate being an arse, either.