Showing posts with label pubs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pubs. Show all posts

Saturday, May 01, 2010

Your Future Dream is a Shopping Scheme




We find ourselves arriving at Part Fifteen of “A Couple of Tenors Short”. I have to admit that this is still proving fun to write and that it looks likely to continue, although some sections seem to lack the pace I’d hoped for and sometimes it has been hard to slip in ‘clues’. Yes, I have it on good authority they are there, feel free to email me if you think you have spotted one. Much better that you tell me than involve the authorities for it can take ages to get the stains out of the cat. 

As it is Saturday, I should also include something that relates to the picture. I think I will slip it in... just... about... HERE! Great. Super.

Everyone must be getting really bored with me saying this now, but this is a serial and to get the best from any serial you should keep you milk chilled and start at Part One.  I should also point out that this is very much a draft. There are things that need developing in the edit, couple of plot holes to fill and some ideas that I want to weave in. I’m not quite sure how I will get to share those with my loyal readers. However, if any readers think they have spotted any errors, I would appreciate it if you let me know.
Should you be rejoining the story, or do not have the inclination to read the previous parts, allow me to recap.

Inspector Glynn Jones is investigating the abduction of Archie McRamie, the theft of industrial generators, forged tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships, feral Girl Guides, the smuggling of illegal MacramĂ© yarn, and a suspected murder of a ‘John Doe’ dragged from the Thames. His biggest obstacle to solving all the cases is that Jones believes he is going mad.

Since the case started, he has found himself married to Pippa Hucknell; found that he driving a rather chirpy, lime green Datsun Cherry that behaves like a puppy;  suffered numerous random wardrobe malfunctions; keeps re-growing a ginger moustache;  bet against his own station in the upcoming police light entertainment championships;  had run in with gangs of Buddhist monks; had one of his team hospitalised by the feral Girl Guides and found the camp Sat-Nav unit in the pink Mark III Ford Zephyr is developing a personality and cannot be switched off.

Doctor Wilkins, the famous TV Pathologist has confirmed the unknown swimmer drowned in the Thames after taking a large high tea. The Fruit Fancies of his last meal are being linked to Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling. Darrius works for Horace Adkins, the beloved Barbers Shop Quartet impresario who is presumed dead after a massive explosion at his Georgian Mansion which the local police have suggested was suicide.

After finding a copy of ‘The Cat Crowed at a Little After Two-thirty’ by Archie McRamie in which the main character appears to be Horace Adkins, he decides to pay the author a visit only to find that both he and Smithy had been there before but cannot remember anything about it. Not only does he discover that McRamie has been abducted, but that all records relating to the case have vanished.

Darrius ‘The Baker’ Kipling and Dunker Phil, another of Adkins employees, were observed with Vera Anne Adkins and Violet Ann Adkins, two of Horace’s daughters, visiting the offices of London’s premier trial lawyers, Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon.

Jones has had a meeting with his Superintendant and a man from the State Security Services who are very interested in finding out why this visit took place, but have told the Inspector that he will be disowned if his investigation results in adverse public opinion.

Now read on...

It was years since Johnny Jackson and Glynn Jones had shared a desk at Secondary School in Swansea. Within minutes they’d forged a friendship that had seen them share triumphs and disaster, a bond that held firm when Glynn had joined the police and Johnny had gone away to University. When Johnny started work in London, Glynn had transferred to the Met. They shared a flat in Fulham for years before Johnny married. Glynn had been his best man.

The two sat at the corner table in the ‘Lamb and Ledger’ and chatted and laughed and teased each other the way that only old friends can. Glynn teased Johnny over his ineptitude at sport. Johnny responded with anecdotes over the way Glynn caused chaos in Miss Morgan’s music class and how he had become the king of the triangle at school concerts.

Eventually, Jones fell silent and stared at his empty plate. Johnny observed him with his head tilted to one side.

“Look, Johnny. Normally I wouldn’t ask anything like this, but...” Jones paused and bit his lip. “I have a huge favour to ask.”

“Ask away. After all, what are mates for?” Johnny laughed and slapped Jones on the arm.

“Well, a couple of days ago...” Jones voice trailed away and he clasped his hands together in his lap. “A couple of days ago, Vera Adkins visited Witherspoon, Lewes, Grambling, and Witherspoon and, well... errr... people are curious as to why.”

Johnny Jackson leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle. “Come on Glynn. That’s client confidentiality.”

Jones nodded. “As I said, I wouldn’t normally ask.”

Johnny looked hard at his friend. “OK, but it will cost you one of your home cooked exotic meals in the company of that gorgeous wife of yours PLUS two tickets to the Light Entertainment Championships.”

Inspector Jones nodded. “How about Saturday night?”

“Perfect!” Johnny grinned. “It was all rather odd really. Vera Adkins turns up at the office and is all dramatic, like. Sits in the outer office and demands an appointment. Luckily, Sir Andrew Witherspoon agreed to see her.”

“Sir Andrew? The senior partner?” Jones interjected.

“Yes and without a murmur.” Johnny leaned forward. “Anyway, while she was waiting, Vera gets a call saying that her father, Horace Adkins had committed suicide. Yet, she still insists on seeing Sir Andrew. Oh she gives a few sobs and that, but she stays put and waits.

“Anyway, she gets shown through and I find some papers that need filing in the cabinets next to Sir Andrew’s door. Once inside she says she wants to launch a defamation case. Says her father’s good name has been impugned and wants to see the people responsible pay.”

“Who needs to pay?” Jones interrupted.

“Dunno.” Johnny gave a shrug. “Before they got to talk about that, who should turn up but Violet Adkins. Once she finds out that her sister is in with Sir Andrew, she comes storming through, shoots me a look that would have lemmings running for the nearest cliff and goes right into Sir Andrew’s office without even knocking.

“Then the two sisters start to argue. Violet tries to talk her sister out of the case, but at first Vera is having none of it. Then, all sudden like, she changes her mind. Decides that she doesn’t want to take the case forward and they both leave.”

“What did Violet say that changed her mind so suddenly?” the Inspector scratched at the back of his neck.

“Something about their sister has organised everything to ensure their Father’s good name will be remembered and that soon he will be the most popular and famous man in Britain.”

“Sister? Which sister?” Jones asked eagerly

Johnny just shook his head. “Dunno. But do you know what was really weird? As soon as they left, Sir Andrew was straight on the phone to Sir Terence Cauldron to arrange to meet for drinks.”

“Sir Terence Cauldron the politician? The Minister for the Environment?”  Jones asked

Johnny nodded then checked his watch. “Look, I have to go. I’ll see you Saturday, yes?”

The two stood and hugged before Johnny Jackson scuttled out of the door. Jones watched him go, drained his pint then settled the bill.

Outside in the street, a group of schoolchildren were dressing a waxwork of Sir Francis Drake as a Franciscan monk. A group of their friends sat on a low wall plucking out sea shanties on ukuleles. As Jones passed, they stopped and watched him intently. One of them pointed at the Inspector said something to the group and they all laughed.

Taking a deep breath, Jones strode off to the bus stop where he rang Smithy and asked him to get two more tickets for the Light Entertainment Championships.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Monday Night is Romance Night


Sid, the erstwhile patron of the ‘Rat & Ferret’ is always looking for ways to boost the income from his hostelry. As he says, these are hard times and being a tied house to the Ethaniel Nightswerve Brewery and Liniment Emporium Plc means the margin on drinks is small. As he tells us regulars at every opportunity, the money he makes on his extensive range of ales is barely enough to keep Mattress Madge in her specially engineered corset ry.


Thankfully, Sid is never short of a few entrepreneurial ideas. He brought in a team of chefs from Eastern Europe and has been hosting incredibly popular ‘Gourmet Cabbage’ nights, drawing diners from far and wide. He’s converted part of the public bar into a Post Office (See Note1). In the summer, when the prevailing wind is blowing towards the abattoir, Sid hosts International Chess tournaments complete with a pig roast in the garden. In the winter, he hosts the World Egg Pickling Championships (See Note 2).


While the money is obviously nice, this also has a very positive impact on the pub. It is the centre of the local community. It is a place with character and (a very definite and distinctive) atmosphere where people can enjoy go and feel a sense of real belonging. It is a place where you can always be sure that there is something interesting going on. (See Note 3)


It would embarrass Sid immensely, but there is also the charity work. Sid tirelessly organises fund raisers for the less fortunate. Barely a month goes by without Sid and Mattress Madge being sponsored for something or another in aid of sick manicurists in Senegal or turning over the Dining Room for a gala for fallen women. Such are his efforts, that last month, the lady mayoress rewarded him with an engraved pewter tankard in recognition of his efforts for Patagonian donkeys. (See Note 4)


After the unfortunate closure of the local adult education centre (See Note 5), Sid has stepped into the breach again by allowing the skittle alley to be used for some of the evening classes.


One of the most popular is Padstow’s current class on ‘Seduction Techniques for the Aesthetically Challenged’ (See Note 6). Such is the popularity; the male regulars make sure that there is a sturdy chair wedging shut the connecting door to the skittle alley to avoid being dragged in for the practicals.


With so many of his restraining orders lapsing recently, Padstow was a touch depressed. However, with the success of this class, his spirit has been lifted enough to find the energy to take up a few light stalking duties of faux celebrities on Twitter.


Seeing this positive change in Padstow’s mood and the spring in the step of a number of the town’s architecturally built women, I haven’t the heart to tell anyone that the obvious success of the techniques owes little to the course content and a lot to do with the after effects of Sid’s ‘Gourmet Cabbage’ nights (See Note 7)




Note 1 : Sadly, this has not been the financial boost that Sid hoped. As soon as the local pensioners drew their pension, they retired to the snug where they tended to blow the lot on an illicit high stakes domino game instead of investing it wisely in a few quarts of Ethaniel Nightswerve’s finest.



Note 2 : Which has the added bonus of Sid being able to corner the market in pickled eggs in the run up to the festive season, plus a few pickled eggs with your gourmet cabbage adds to the atmosphere.



Note 3 : Only last week they discovered two of last years Chess competitors living in the chicken coop. Apparently, after being knocked out early in the competition they decided to knock back half a bottle of dried frog pills washed down with copious amounts of Velvet Cudgel and since August had been convinced they were a pair of Rhode Island Red Roosters.



Note 4 : Which of course, Sid raffled in aid of charities for disadvantaged parrots. In the US meanwhile, our beloved Prime Minister, Gordon Brown was doing the glad handing. At the Embassy Residence, Rabbi Schneier gave our PM a silver honey pot in the shape of an apple in thanks for work tackling poverty. Who said that Merkins don’t do irony? If anyone can tell me where I can buy a raffle ticket for the honey pot, please let me know.



Note 5 : Thankfully, Mr Stovelightly is making a very good recovery and has vowed to always wear his reading glasses in chemistry class in future. Exposing Ethaniel Nightswerve’s Premium Buttock Liniment to a naked flame is never a good idea. Still, thankfully the class was empty and the time and the builders believe that it won’t take too long to make the building safe.



Note 6 : Although it must be said that a number of the ladies in the class arrive by taxi in heavy disguise after telling friends and significant others that they are actually attending ‘Lard Sculpture for Beginners’ in the Drill Hall.



Note 7 : My indurated yeomen, yet again I feel that I have been restrained in where the synaptic tangents could have taken me. When I decided that my ‘story of the post’ was going to be that one, my mind immediately went to that tried and trusted bedtime game, much loved of honeymooners, the nocturnal contest of Dutch Ovens. For those of you who are saving yourself for marriage, you should read no further. OK, so you didn’t stop reading? Hmmmm, well I think I may have misjudged my audience. Dutch Oven’s is described to the sweet innocent partner as a game where if someone shouts ‘Dutch Ovens!’ and the winner is the first person to get their head fully beneath the bed clothes. The non-innocent then passes wind and shouts ‘Dutch Ovens!’


In the past I thought this just a prank, but having read the article, I am beginning to suspect that there may be some genetic conditioning that causes the male the urge to smell their own expelled gaseous matter as a guarantee of future performance.



Note to self : At some stage I could explain the phrase ‘ close to the mud’.