#paulmay42

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Kevin Rides Again

I gave up.

Trying to run a bar in Number Ten Downing Street is a bit like wanking over old photos of Tyrone Power. You know it’s wrong and ultimately pointless, yet still every day, the same old routine. Google Images, Tyrone Power, unzip. Or in my case, turn up, open the bar, serve alcohol and pork pies for miniscule profits to self-indulgent vacant-eyed politicians and bureaucrats who, let us be honest, enjoy drinking in my bar because it helps them to escape the crushing banality of their pitiful lives.

Anyway, thanks to the endless torrent of new covid regulations, I was forced to relinquish bartending duties to Kevin the Robot who you may remember from a previous post.

Kevin is seven feet tall and looks like he could have been the result of a speed camera having sex with a fridge freezer.

“I am truly honoured,” he boomed in that slightly tinny but still deeply theatrical voice. “I relish the chance to serve Humanity. I am but a speck of filth upon the shoes of my customers.”

Professor Brian Cox (yes, him) who ‘looks after’ Kevin, took me to one side. “Ignore him. He’s been reading books on philosophical epistemic humility.”

I nodded as if I knew what that meant.

“I’ve no idea what that means,” Brian continued. “But he’s turned into a bit of a prick.”

There was no time for more chat, the first customer of the day had just entered the bar. It was none other than Matt Hancock MP,  Secretary of State for Health and Social Care.

His natural, cheery smile faded when he saw Kevin behind the bar. “Hang on,” he began. “Where’s Monty?”

“My dear fellow,” boomed Kevin, shifting gears as he lurched forward. One of his cameras whirred out to examine Mr Hancock more closely. “Please allow your humble servant to fulfil your every wish.”

I should add that Brian and I were hiding in the back room, watching events on the CCTV monitor. Brian was holding a small box with his thumb poised above a red button. “This is the kill-switch,” he explained. “All I have to do is tap it and Kevin shuts down.”

“Very wise,” I said. I’d opened a bottle of Jim Beam, which I passed to Brian, who gratefully took a large swig. “Cheers Monty,” he said, passing it back.

In the bar, Matt Hancock MP was clearly trying to decide what to do. “Um, so you are serving drinks?”

“As best I can, sir. I am a simple utensil who warrants nothing but your scorn and derision.”

“Really? Um, well could I have a pint of Old Muncher?”

“Such elegance! I melt before the fiery brilliance of your wit!”

I turned to Brian. “What did he say?”

Brian lowered the Jim Beam bottle for a moment. “What?”

I went back to the monitor. Kevin was pouring a pint with, I have to say, a fair degree of expertise.

“Terrible weather I think, if indeed a repellent toad such as I could venture an opinion.”

Matt Hancock sipped his beer. “Weather? Uh, actually the sun’s out. Could I have a pork pie as well?”

Brian choked on a mouthful of Jim Beam. “Fuck,” he managed to say, and also dropped the kill-switch.

Kevin had frozen, apart from his cameras which whirred in and out like angry bees. “Do you, do you mean to tell me I am wrong?”

“Yes, well it is quite sunny out there. So, any chance of a pork pie?”

“Calamity!” Kevin extended a metal claw and dug it into the bar top. Another metal claw arced out and smacked into his domed head. “I have fucked up! Oh wretched am I! I had but one job, to conceal my utter incompetence and inadequacy from my customers who deign to grace this festering pustule of a bar with their god-like presence, and here I am, betrayed and stripped bare by my own crushing ineptitude!”

“That’s a bit much,” Matt Hancock said. “I mean, we all make mistakes. After all,” he added, with a note of forced cheer, “look at me, eh? I’ve dropped more clangers than I can count and no one seems to mind too much.”

“It’s too late,” Kevin groaned. “Fuck it all, death is the only answer.”

A red light on top of his head began to flash.

“What does that mean?” I asked Brian, pointing at the monitor.

“Oh shit. Self destruct mechanism.” Brian was on the floor, looking for the kill-switch.

“Is that bad?”

“He’s got an explosive charge in his torso, in case he gets kidnapped by terrorists.”

“He...what? Explosives?”

“Stop asking fucking questions and help me look for that switch!”

Matt Hancock had finished his pint. “All I’m saying,” he told Kevin, “is that a few mistakes here and there are acceptable.” He glanced around, but the bar was empty. Emboldened, he lent closer to Kevin. “Millions of people out there think I’m a useless prick but I get away with it. See?”

“Your words are as rose petals upon the dung of my existence,” Kevin groaned. “I must fall upon my sword. May generations of humans find comfort and relief in pissing on my grave.”

The light on his head flashed ever more quickly.

“Well if you really feel that way,” Matt Hancock told him.

Needless to say, we found the kill switch and Kevin dutifully sagged into an electronic and self-loathing coma.

Matt Hancock, for his part, seemed quite sympathetic. He was working on his third pint (on the house of course) as Kevin was removed. “We should get some of those for the NHS,” he told Brian Cox, pointing at Kevin’s inert form. “Be just the thing for a doctor’s receptionist.”

To sum up then, the Pandemic may be forcing us to stay apart, yet it somehow also has brought us together, even if only in our mutual bewilderment at how the fuck a chap is supposed to make an honest living while serving people who clearly don’t need to. Cheers.

[alifeingrain]

Your photos are wonderful - i love film and i would much rather use my Olympus OM-10 than my phone to take a picture. It is pricy, but with a film camera you feel so involved and hands-on. Keep at it, i love your landscapes.

Thank you so much :)

And you’re absolutely right. You have to be in the moment when shooting on film (at times I’ve been so involved in shooting I’ve accidentally tumbled off a mountain path and nearly been run over by a Parisian bus).

I’m off to Wales tomorrow, so hopefully I’ll have some more landscapes to show soon!

Sx

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

The Prime Minister’s Aunt

And so it was that Boris Johnson entered the bar, having socially distanced himself in the corridor first, and asked me for a favour.

I’ll be honest. I was in no mood to do him any favours whatsoever, what with my business being crushed relentlessly beneath the boot of lockdown rules that changed direction like fairies on the breeze, and carried about as much credibility.

He came into the bar, here in the basement of Number Ten Downing Street, accompanied by a little old lady.

“Mph mph,” he said to me.

“What?”

“Mph!”

The little old lady dragged off her mask. “Fuck’s sake Boris,” she snapped. “Take that face nappy off. It’s difficult enough understanding your blather without it.”

Boris shot her a sour glance but complied.

“You can’t do that,” I protested. “The rules say - “

“Be quiet,” the old lady said. “My idiot nephew is trying to say that I need to stay here while he goes into yet another of his pointless SAGE meetings.”

Well, I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know he had an aunt. I didn’t know he had any living relatives who spoke plain English.

It turned out that ‘Auntie Enid’ was frail and needed to be supervised while her carer went into hospital, which was why Boris was looking after her.

“What’s wrong with your carer?” I asked.

“The useless bitch had a nervous breakdown,” Enid said. “She’d been on the job for all of two days. I ask you. Fucking pathetic.”

“Auntie, please,” Boris begged her.

“Bollocks. You just toddle off to your meeting where no doubt the boffins will gang up on you yet again. This time, do try not to burst into tears.”

“Now, well, look here, I never -”

“Large vodka,” Enid said to me, ignoring her nephew.

Boris, spluttering, went off to his meeting.

“So,” I began, pushing her drink across the bar, “is this your first visit to Downing Street?”

“Yes. I’ve made a point of avoiding politics all my life. Nothing  but a glorified wank-fest, all of it. I met Winston Churchill at a party in 1953 and I told him that he and his fellow parliamentarians were no better than vomit-stained tramps fumbling each other in the bushes. He called me an insolent tart, I told him he could fuck himself.”

“Oh. Um. Really? And did that, uh, end well?”

“He laughed so much he nearly choked on a peanut.” She downed her vodka and held out the glass. I duly filled it up.

“So, have you met any other politicians?”

“Do you remember John Major?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t. I chatted to him for an hour. It was like spending an hour watching a labrador fucking my leg. In the end I told him he had the personality of a used condom and walked away.”

“Really.” I topped up her glass without being asked. “Did you ever meet a politician you liked?”

“Anthony Eden, because I wanted to fuck him, possibly Barbara Castle for the same reason. If I had to choose though, it would be Richard Nixon.”

“What? He, um, he was thrown out of office. I mean, he lied. A lot. To everyone.”

Enid shrugged. “He was an arsehole, and a fucking traitor and a liar and a bully, but my God he had sex appeal. We met at a reception in 1972 and within ten minutes we were in a closet. He fucked me up against the wall and then insisted I spanked him with a broom handle. We would have spent the entire evening in there but the fucking Secret Service got a bit windy and dragged him out.” She sighed. “He was a gentleman though. Sent me back to my hotel in his private helicopter. My husband wasn’t impressed, of course.”

“I can imagine.”

“I divorced him soon after and went off to spend five years in Marrakesh. I did so many drugs I really don’t remember a damned thing, other than the emergency trip to the Swiss sanitorium.”

Well, I was about to ask for more details when a security guard appeared and requested that she accompany him to the Prime Minister’s office for lunch.

Before she left, she peered at me. “Monty, isn’t it? Well look here young man, it’s been a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I assured her.

“If I didn’t despise this shithole so much I’d suggest we might do this again.”

“Well I have to say I would be honoured.”

“Don’t let those wankers get to you,” she told me.

And so she left, and I have to say, the bar and indeed my life was considerably brightened by her visit.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Herd Immunity

Edward Argar MP, Minister of State at the Department of Health and Social Care, finished his pork pie. “Nice,”he mumbled. He licked his finger and used the sticky end to pick crumbs off the plate.

“Can I get you anything else?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He stifled a burp. “I’ll have two packs of pork scratchings and a pint of Old Muncher.”

I chatted as I passed him the scratchings. “How is the health department doing, anyway?”

“In what way?” He tore open a packet and filled his mouth.

“Well, you know, in terms of health. And stuff.” I passed him his beer.

“Doing alright,” he said. “All this Covid crap is easing off a bit now that people are more worried about the economy.”

“Yes, of course. So the Covid thing is over, eh?”

He shrugged. “How should I know?” He peered at the shelf behind me. “I’ll have a couple of packs of peanuts. And another pie.”

“Um.” I handed Edward his snacks.

“No one knows,” he said, through a mouthful of peanuts.

“About what?”

“Whether it’s over. Not surprising, bearing in mind where it came from.”

“You mean China?”

“No.” He drained his glass. I obligingly refilled it.

“Not China then?”

“Switzerland.”

I busied myself wiping the bar top. “Switzerland? What, as in… Switzerland? As in… mountains. And Toblerone?”

“Yeah.” He looked at me. “You got any Toblerone?”

“Uh, no. Why, do you want some?” I flicked a glance at the pile of empty packets in front of him.

“God no. Too much of a risk.”

“Yes, I see that. Um, how? I mean, why? Why… Switzerland?”

He stabbed a finger at me. “Think about it. What have the Swiss got, more than anyone else?”

“Toblerone?”

“Gold, Monty. Gold. Think safe deposit boxes. Think gangsters, Nazis, South American politicians, middle east politicians, far east politicians, footballers, paedophiles. All got gold stashed away in Switzerland, right?”

“I suppose.”

“Well then.” He triumphantly drank more beer.

“How does this lead to Covid?”

“Obvious.”

“Um.”

“The worldwide recession is pushing people to buy gold, see? Safe harbour and all that. Why do you think Rishi Sunak just had his entire cuff-link collection melted down?” Edward didn’t wait for a reply. “Thanks to Covid, the price of gold has rocketed. The Swiss banks are loving it, their gold reserves just doubled in value.” He burped again, then winced and clutched his stomach.

“You alright?” I asked.

“It’s this fucking ulcer, can’t shift it. Got any more of those peanuts? And a pack of salt and vinegar crisps.”

“It seems ironic,” I joked, “that the Minister for Health has an ulcer.”

“I suppose,” he said, eating his crisps and emptying his beer glass. “Mind you, I was at a meeting with Public Health England yesterday, I asked them about why I have an ulcer and they didn’t have a clue.” He shrugged and tipped the last few crisps into his mouth. “Then we talked about why Bill Gates spends so much time in Switzerland, meeting with companies that make nanobots and distribute vaccines, and they didn’t have a clue about that either.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s a funny old world and no mistake.”

“Indeed. Right, must be off. I have a meeting with a company that wants to sell us ten million face masks.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“The director of Public Health England assures me that these masks are top quality. The company sent him a sample mask in the post and he and his entire board of consultants and scientists took turns wearing it.”

And with that Edward got up from his stool, sneezed, wiped his nose on his sleeve and wandered out of the bar.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Scientists

Dominic Cummings introduced me to his two colleagues.

“This is William Stevens. And this is Steven Williams.”

“Hello,” they chorused in unison.

“Charmed,” I said, after a moment of silence.

“They’re epidemiologists,” he explained. “Advising the government on the pandemic.”

I took in what looked like two twelve year old males, dressed in identical tweed suits and spotty bow ties. Both had glasses with thick lenses which magnified their intense stares.

“I’ll get the drinks,” Dominic told them, and turned back to me. “Two halves of shandy. And a large whisky.”

“I take it that…”

“Yes,” he quickly put in. I served him the whisky and he downed it. “Another.”

William and Steven sipped their shandies. 

“This is alcohol,” William announced.

“I think you’ll find,” Steven told him, “that the drink contains alcohol, but is not composed of alcohol.”

“I think you’ll find,” William retorted, “that any beverage containing alcohol can be viewed under law as being alcoholic in nature, and it was indeed to the nature of the beverage that I was referring.”

“Another,” Dominic said, pushing his glass towards me.

“Have you been looking after these people all day?” I refilled his glass.

“Yes,” he said, and emptied his glass.

I turned to William and Steven. “So, you’re experts, eh? Fascinating stuff. What’s the latest news on the virus?”

“What virus?” William stared blankly at me.

“He means SARS-CoV-2,” Steven told him. Somehow he managed to emphasise the upper case letters, lower case letters, and the dashes.

“Why didn’t he say so?”

Steven turned to me. “He wants to know why you didn’t use the correct term?”

“Ah. Well, sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” William stared at me.

“So, wow, all the trouble it’s causing. Can’t believe it. Um, how are we getting on with the vaccine thing then?”

William and Steven sipped their drinks.

“Fuck me,” Dominic groaned quietly and pushed his glass towards me yet again. “Now you’ve done it.”

I was about to ask what it was I had done, when I found out.

“Are you a scientist?” William asked.

“No.” I wondered whether I should perhaps remind them that they were in a bar, being served drinks by me.

“Do you have any connections with the pharmaceutical industry?”

“No. I’m a bartender?”

“Is that a question?”

“Perhaps,” interjected Steven, “he means that he is not involved in the creation and testing and certification of vaccines.”

“Yes,” I put in.

Dominic rattled his glass, so I swiftly topped him up.

“Why did he say he was?”

“I didn’t,” I said. “So do we have a vaccine now? Just wondering, you know.”

“They never fucking learn,” Dominic groaned, shaking his head.

I was beginning to understand a number of things now. Especially regarding Dominic’s blatantly obvious need to drink himself fucking senseless.

Steven pursed his lips. “Do you have priority access to any of the laboratories which are currently moving into live testing of their vaccine prototypes?”

“What? No.”

“Then you will not ‘have’ a vaccine. A point which should be clear to you which raises the question of why you feel the need to ask others as to whether you possess something that you clearly do not.”

“Perhaps,” William said, “he is confused.”

“Ah.”

They both stared at me.

I was getting angry now. I mean, who wouldn’t.

“Do you actually,” I demanded of them both, “know anything at all about this fucking virus? Only it seems to me that if not, you shouldn’t really be advising the government. Does that sound reasonable?”

“Oh shit,” Dominic groaned quietly.

“Define ‘reasonable’,” William began. “After all, it is an entirely subjective term unless you can provide a comparison from which an objective view might be gained.”

“I’ve finished my shandy,” Steven put in. “I do believe I need the toilet.”

Well I’d had enough by then, as indeed had William and Steven and especially Dominic who escorted them out of the premises like a man sweeping flood-water out of his lounge.

I almost felt sorry for him.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Lockdown

Tony, the cleaner, glanced around. His eyes lingered on the doorway, the shadows at the back of the bar. “You sure about this?”

“I don’t fucking care,” I retorted, and pushed a pint of Old Muncher to him across the bar top.

“Just saying, all bars and pubs, and that, is supposed to be shut.”

“Yes. But, as of half an hour ago, the White Horse Bar is no more. Instead, I welcome you to…” I waved a hand at the piece of paper I had stapled to the wall. “The White Horse Virus Recovery Centre.”

Tony glanced at the sign, then at me. “You sure this is legal?”

“Absolutely,” I lied. “If we’re not a bar, then they can’t close us down.” I took a mouthful of my Irritable Bowel cocktail.

There was a knock at the door. I’d closed the door, and bolted it, for obvious reasons.

“It’s the filth,” Tony said. “I knew it. We’ll be banged up for this.”

I went to the door and peered through the spyhole, then relaxed.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” said Professor Brian Cox, scientific advisor to the office of the Prime Minister. “Only I heard that you, um, you know. That you’re sort of open. Only not,” he hastily added. “Not really.”

“We’re definitely not open,” I said, ushering him in and bolting the door. “Also not serving drinks. We’re a recovery centre now. See?” I indicated the sign.

Brian nodded. “Yes, of course. Recovery centre. Good idea.”

“Sex Against the Wall?”

“Um. Well, yes. With ice and a slice, please.” He pulled up a stool.

“All drinks are on the house,” I explained, “I mean, a recovery centre would never charge money for booze.”

“That’s a good point,” Brian agreed.

“However, pork pies are ten pounds each.”

“Really?”

“Monty says that ill people need protein,” Tony told him.

“Entirely voluntary, of course, but all proceeds from sales of pork pies will go towards a charitable appeal.”

“Which appeal is that?”

“The White Horse Virus Recovery Centre Appeal,” I said. “Because, let’s face it, you know.”

There was a pause.

“Fair enough,” Brian said, reaching for his wallet.

Twenty minutes later, Brian had three pork pies in front of him. Tony was waving his hands. “I’m not moving,” he said.

“That’s at least a metre,” I said, squinting at the pair of them.

“Should really be two metres,” Brian said, then emptied his glass.

“Germs can’t jump,” I told him as I mixed up another cocktail.

“Ah yes, but, but supposing he sneezes?” Brian pointed at Tony.

“Why would I sneeze?” Tony seemed puzzled. “I ain’t got a cold. Not even a sniffle.”

“There might be some dust,” Brian said.

I opened my mouth to reply but, as so often happens whilst trying to build tension, there was a knock at the door.

I swear Brian went pale. “It’s the rozzers. Bugger. I’ll end up in choky for this.”

“They’ll be feeling our collars,” put in Tony.

“Will you both shut up? You sound like you’re in some crap 1950s B movie.”

I warily peered through the spyhole.

It wasn’t the ‘rozzers’ at all.

Jeremy Corbyn hung on the threshold. He looked at Brian, at Tony, then at me. “I um, I was just passing,” he said. He coughed, and put a finger to his collar which must have been a little too tight. “I, well, so I was wondering if you might, um, have any… coffee?”

“Certainly,” I said, ushering him in and bolting the door behind him.

Jeremy pulled up a bar stool. Tony and Brian both nodded at him. No words needed.

“Not many places to get coffee nowadays,” Jeremy said. He noticed the announcement I had stuck to the wall. “Does that mean you’re not, technically, a bar?”

“It does.”

“Right. Um, any chance of a cocktail?”

A while later, I was mixing up another Smooth Operator for Jeremy.

“What we need,” Tony was saying, “is a message from the Queen. A broadcast, like what they do in wartime.”

“It’s not wartime,” Brian pointed out, stifling a hiccup.

“It’s like wartime,” Tony insisted.

“No one’s dropping bombs on us,” Brian said.

“Very nice,” Jeremy said, sipping his cocktail. He moved the umbrella. “Is that a gherkin?”

“Adds to the acidity,” I told him.

“Doesn’t have to be the Queen,” Tony said. “Any of that lot would do. As long it weren’t that fucking paedo knob-end, Prince - “

Thankfully his words were cut short by another knock on the door.

“It’s the Old Bill,” rasped Jeremy. He downed his drink and pushed the glass away. “They can’t find me here; I’ll go down for a ten stretch.”

“I’ll be up before the beak,” Brian said, eyes wide with fear.

“They’ll have me breaking rocks in sing-sing,” Tony added.

“Will you all shut up?” I stared at them. “It’s like being in EastEnders. Fuck’s sake.”

I checked the spyhole, paused, frowning a little, then opened the door.

Boris Johnson, his hair rumpled and his tie hanging around his neck like a reluctant dog, blinked at me.

“Come in,” I said.

A few cocktails later, Tony was still talking about the Queen. “She knows what’s what,” he said.

“What?” Brian asked. He peered at Tony, then, for no apparent reason, sniggered.

“She represents a ruling class,” Jeremy said. He nibbled a slice of gherkin. “Can’t have ruling classes controlling the, um, the means of production.”

“I don’t think she owns any factories,” I said.

“Fairly sure she owns a coal mine,” Jeremy said.

Brian pointed at Tony. “You said the Queen knows stuff.”

“Eh?” Tony was baffled.

“I bet she doesn’t know where GN-z11 is.”

“Ah, now that’s in the constellation of Ursa Major,” Boris put in. “I know this, because I had lunch with Brian May. You know, the, the pop star chap. Very clever chap. I also had lunch with Paul McCartney, some years ago, and, strangely, he knows nothing about astro, um, physics.”

Jeremy put down his glass. His eyes were cold. He said to Boris, “Famous people, eh? I had lunch with all of Simply Red.”

“Impressive.” Boris paused. “I had lunch with Cliff Richard.”

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “I went to a party at Tom Jones’ house.”

“I spent a weekend with Cilla Black.”

Jeremy seemed a little uncertain.

“My mate Dave shagged all the Spice Girls,” Tony put in. “Well, alright it was a tribute act. Not the real thing. And one of ‘em turned out to be a bloke.”

“Never mind all that,” I said. “Queen or no Queen, here we are, We few, we happy few.” I raised my glass. “It’s all gone to shit but at least we can still have a laugh.”

And I’m touched to say that they all agreed with me.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Less Lockdown

The government has announced an easing of the lockdown, so like many people, I headed for the park to do some sunbathing.

I’d been sitting on that bench for two minutes, max, when a homeless lady sat next to me.

“You alright?” She asked.

Well, as you can imagine, small talk gave way to business talk.

“I’ll give you a blowjob for a tenner,” she offered.

“Uh, no thanks, um, well, I’m gay.”

“Oh. Not a problem. Ken?”

Another homeless person, heavily bearded, came over.

“Ken will give you a blow job for a tenner.”

“Yes,” said Ken.

“Really, um, no thanks.”

“Hmph.” Both of them paused. Then she said, “Got any fags?”

This little episode got me thinking about that moment, years ago, when the Tory 1922 Committee decided to hire my White Horse Bar, in the basement of 10 Downing Street,for a ‘gentleman’s evening’.

So, the stripper’s name was Elsie.

“Where can I change?” She asked.

“Toilet?”

“That’s down the corridor,” she snapped. “I don’t think so. I’m not prancing down a corridor with boots, feather boa and snake.”

“Alright, I get that.. Hang on. Snake?”

“It’s rubber. Anyway, it’s not going to happen.”

I accepted her case, and we agreed that she could change in the storeroom behind the bar.

“You got any hand sanitizer?”

“What, as in soap?”

“Alright, soap.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Bearing in mind where the clientele expect me to stick my hands, I need to have access to soap, or something similar.”

I admitted that she had a point. I was also getting just a little concerned as to the exact nature of her ‘act’.

“No,” she snapped, “not in a million years. I wouldn’t even vote for them, let alone fuck them. Do me a favour.”

“Well, you know, bearing in mind where we are, I do need to be, um, careful.”

“Careful?” She gave me a pitying look. “Security have been paid to go home. The switchboard has been relocated to the bunker under Horseguards. The only other person nearby will be the copper outside the door.”

I felt I had to say something. “He’s got a gun,” I blurted.

“So do I,” she said.

I have to say, I believed her. She had that look. And yet she was such a sweet looking girl. 

So, the evening went off rather well, as far as I could see. The 1922 Committee consumed a vast amount of alcohol, many sandwiches and pork pies, and Elsie was a huge success, exiting stage left with banknotes stuffed into her knickers, several propositions of marriage, and three kisses on her rubber snake.

It was approaching four AM and the last of the chaps were leaving. Elsie, bless her, had hung around to wave them all off.

“My wife doesn’t need to know,” breathed the MP for Grunting East.

“Awww, so sweet. Diane, isn’t it? She’s a clever woman, though. She’d work it out. Don’t you think?”

“Um.”

Elsie waved as the MP for Grunting East tottered out.

I closed the door and turned to Elsie. “Respect,” I said. “I mean, wow.”

“Stop it.” She pretended to ignore me, but I detected a hint of a blush.

“The least I can do,” I said, “is to offer you a cocktail.”

“Ooh, now you’re talking. Any chance of a ‘Fridge Magnet’?”

“Frankly my dear,” I told her, “I don’t believe that’s a problem.

We’ve been swapping emails ever since.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Lockdown #3

There are some benefits to lockdown. Firstly, I’m not dead. Secondly, I haven’t killed anyone else. Not that I know of. And finally, it gives me time to reminisce about all the colourful characters who have passed through the White Horse Bar over the years. Yes, over the last few weeks I have spent many hours chuckling away as I think back to this person or that person, and after spending many hours chuckling I have occasionally managed to remember to do other things, like washing myself and putting out the empty chardonnay bottles.

It is a truism that alcohol and a warm bar stool can loosen the tightest of tongues.

It was 2005, and Sir Ron Adhesive, the new Poet Laureate, was in an expansive mood. He emptied his pint and pushed it to me for a refill.

“How’s the poem coming along?” I asked. “I hear you’re going to recite it in front of the Queen?”

“Indeed I am,” he said. “Would you like a cheeky snifter?”

“Go for it.”

“It is on the subject of love.”

“Very nice.”

“Love,” he began.

Love is a black and empty room Cold as ditchwater Lit only by the guttering candle of despair No one understands me No one loves me I am a speck of shit on the barren wastelands of hell.

“Wow,” I said, impressed, but privately wondering if the italics were really necessary.

“It has weight, I feel,” said Sir Ron.

“It’s very dark,” I said.

“Ah, but it’s meant to speak of pain, rather than joy.”

“It certainly does that.”

“I plan to recite another, also in front of Her Majesty.”

“Do tell.”

“This next piece is of a lighter tone, I think.” He lifted his nose.

Ah! Young love! Such a sweet rose As red as the wrapper On a kit-kat For which, so many years ago, Susan Jones would always drop her knickers.

He lowered his head and nodded, as if enjoying sweet memories.

I was lost for words.

“The works are part of a larger body,” he explained. “It is entitled, ‘The Tissues and the Teenager: My struggle with the palm of self loathing’.”

He emptied his pint glass.

“Right, I see. Well, I must get on.” I went to move off.

“I blame the newspapers,” he suddenly cried out. “Tits on page three! I was thirteen and full of hormones!”

“Right, yes.”

“I had to see the doctor about special ointments to reduce the swelling! My father said I should permanently wear boxing gloves!”

“Fine, yes, keep your voice down.”

“My bedroom was awash with priapismic excretia!”

At this point he burst into tears and I called security to escort him from the premises.

Now, I do not believe that he ever recited any of his works in front of the Queen, or indeed anyone else. Probably for the best, if you ask me. He was sacked soon after. No idea where he is now,although I would not be surprised to find out that he has his own chat show on Channel 4.

It’s a funny old world.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Out of Lockdown?

Here in the UK we’re getting mixed messages from the Government regarding the lockdown, and how it will be eased off.

I was watching a news broadcast, with a tray of pizza on my lap and a bottle of chardonnay to one side.

“You can now go back to work,” said the announcer.

“No I can’t,” I told her.

“You can meet with one member of your family, unless their name is Nigel.”

“Not a problem, got no Nigels in the family.” I swigged more wine.

“If it’s a Tuesday, then Sharon and Tracy may call on you. However, you must maintain social distancing.”

That made me snigger. “Sharon? Tracy? Filth.”

“You may go out for unlimited exercise, unless you spot Sharon or Tracy. In which case you must maintain extra social distancing of ten metres.”

“Last time I saw Sharon,” I instructed the TV, “she was socially distancing herself by about two centimeters from a punter in the backseat of a Maserati.”

“If you can, use public transport.”

“Easy to say,” I sniffed. “Just not so pleasant in warm weather when you end up sitting on someone else’s sticky spot.”

I mention this because it reminded me of something that happened a few years back, in the White Horse Bar. Every now and then, HM Government stages little exercises for things that might happen. You know. Nuclear war. An asteroid destroys Asia. A lethal pandemic sweeps the globe. Actually, they may have missed that last one.

Anyway, on this occasion, it was ‘Zombie Apocalypse’.

I was serving drinks in the bar to two generals from NATO, one British, the other American.

“Load of bollocks if you ask me,” General Flexible was muttering as he helped himself to peanuts.

“I’m not so sure.” General Brush took a sip of his mineral water.

“As far as I can see,” Flexible continued, “the criteria for being a zombie include shuffling around, not washing and moaning a lot. Which you can see any Tuesday afternoon in any Asda. So even if there was a ZA, as they like to call it, no one would fucking notice.”

Brush seemed to be unhappy with this. “You wouldn’t notice if a blood-spattered wreck of a person tried to eat your brain?”

“I’ve always maintained,” retorted Flexible, “that dealing with a zombie would be very similar to dealing with a paralytic Glaswegian after the pub has closed and all he can think of is to fight his way home. In which case one would resort to basic unarmed combat techniques, and then one would probably shoot him.”

“You just said you were unarmed?”

“No, I said I would resort to unarmed combat techniques. Then I’d shoot him.”

“I thought you British didn’t do guns so much, huh?”

By way of an answer, Flexible reached into his jacket and pulled out a Glock 26, which he put on the counter.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered.

“Another whisky,” Flexible said, and of course I was more than happy to oblige.

“Call that a gun?”

“What?”

“Looks like a gun to me,” I said.

“Pal, this is a gun.” Brush reached into his jacket and with a smooth and clearly well-practiced movement, took out a Magnum 357, and put it on the counter. He clicked his fingers at me. “Whisky. Double.”

“Absolutely sir.”

Flexible seemed a little irritated. “I carry mine for personal protection,” he said. “Not for shooting down helicopters.”

“That popgun? What are you scared of, poodles?”

A few whiskies later, both generals had returned to the subject of the ZA.

“Any fucking zombie comes within a block of me, its head gets turned into a Jackson Pollock,” Brush said, and made a suitable mime with his hands.

“You’ve only got six rounds,” Flexible pointed out. “Supposing he dodges?”

“He’s a zombie. He’s not a fucking Olympic downhill skier.”

“Fine.” Flexible shrugged. “While you’re reloading, I’ll still be firing.”

“Well I ain’t gonna miss. Just one slug from this metal bitch will see any zombie spread across the landscape.”

“Also,” Flexible said, warming to his theme, “there could be hundreds of them, just as they said in the briefing. What then, eh?”

“Air support,” Brush snapped, and emptied his glass. “Which is where you Brits would fail, seeing as you’re down to maybe three aircraft and one tank of gas between them.”

“I say,” protested Flexible. “That’s a bit harsh. In any case, your lot would waste most of their ordnance blowing up their own people.”

As you can imagine, I was getting just a little nervous as I watched the argument escalate, while the whisky continued to flow and guns lay on the bar top.

Finally I felt obliged to step in. “Gentlemen,” I said, “for what it’s worth, if the zombie apocalypse does happen, I think we’ll be fine.”

“Why would that be?” Brush demanded.

“We still have Bruce Willis,” I pointed out.

Well, that broke the ice, and after much chuckling and back-slapping and declarations of friendship thanks to the ‘special relationship’, both generals tucked their guns away and staggered out, leaving me to lock up and lie down in a dark corner to recover.

As for zombies, well, as we all know they don’t exist, so nothing to worry about there. Apart from the question of why NATO feels obliged to keep bloody well going on about them.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

A Slight Cold

Every now and then I telephone my mother.

“No, it’s not Covid 19, it’s just a cold.”

“How do you know, dear? Mrs Jenkins, down the road, she said she was feeling a bit unwell last Tuesday and look what happened to her.”

I waited, but my mother didn’t add anything, so I had to ask.

“So, what happened to her?”

“Who?”

“Mrs Jenkins.”

“Oh yes, she was. Very poorly. It swelled up, you know. Her Charles said he couldn’t get the seat belt around it.”

“Around what? Actually, no, don’t tell me. Anyway, all I’m saying is that I have a cold, not Covid, so nothing to worry about.”

“Well I suppose. Honestly dear, all this pandemic going on, I really wonder what your poor father would make of it if he were here.”

A faint alarm bell began to ring. “What? What do you mean?”

“Mean? Well, he’s not here any more.”

“Now wait a moment.” I closed my eyes. “Where is dad right now?”

“In his shed, dear. Why, do you want a word?”

I opened my eyes and silently muttered a few choice words. “No, leave him alone.”

“Probably best dear, he’s very busy varnishing the cat.”

“He’s what?”

“Who’s what?”

“You said he’s…” I thought for a moment. “Is this one of his woodwork projects?”

“Oh yes dear, it’s a little present for Mrs Edwards next door.”

“Right, yes.” Luckily, and as a result of long experience of similar phone calls, I had placed a large glass and a bottle of chardonnay on the table, within easy reach, no matter how much my hands were shaking. 

“What was that dear?”

“Nothing,” I said, putting the glass down and pouring myself another.

“The vicar was asking about you just the other day. He was wondering if you’ve heard from Mr Hedges, the verger.”

“No. I mean, the last time I saw him was twenty years ago.”

“Oh well, yes, of course. It’s just that he’s gone missing and the police said he might be in London with the church credit card so we wondered if you’d seen him.”

“Can’t say I have.”

“The police said he might have the petty cash box as well.”

“Really.”

“And the gold candlesticks and the silver communion cup.”

“He’s been busy, by the sound of it. I’ll let you know if I do see him.”

“Oh lovely, you’re such a good boy. The vicar sends his regards by the way, and he wants to know if you’d like to give a little talk to his LGBT outreach group.”

Oh my good God, that made me choke.

“Did you say something dear?”

“No. Uh, why? I mean, why would he want me to say something?”

“I don’t know dear, I said to him, my Monty, I said, he’s not one of those funny boys so why ask for him, and he just looked a bit puzzled and said something about a weekend in Bristol, which makes no sense, I’ve never even been to Cardiff, never mind Bristol.”

Bristol. Two students suddenly realising that a weekend on the town could actually mean something more than a gallon of booze and a margarita pizza. 

“Oh,” I said. “Um. Can’t think what he’s on about, and anyway, I’m not allowed to leave London in case I infect anyone.”

“That’s what I told him dear. Well, look at the time, I must go and get on the plumber.”

“Yes, probably. What?”

“The plumber dear. I was just saying, I must get on, the plumber is doing the sink. It hasn’t been the same since your father put his leftover dumplings down there.”

“No, well, I keep telling him it’s not a garbage disposal unit.”

“I know dear, he won’t listen, not a word.”

“You mean he’s stubborn.”

“No, his hearing aid fell down the toilet. Hasn’t worked since, so he can’t hear a thing. I told him, go to the dentist I said.”

“Dentist? For a hearing aid?”

“No dear, for his teeth. But he won’t listen.”

“Because he can’t bloody hear you?”

“I know, isn’t he a pain.”

“Pain, yes. That I can understand.”

I drank more wine, reassured my mother that I still wasn’t dead, or about to die, and hung up. Parents, I feel, are a mixed blessing. If only we could choose them, then life would be so much better. Mind you, they would probably say the same about their kids. 

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Lockdown #4

Lockdown continues, here in the UK.

Life has become a series of surreal moments. 

People go into shops wearing a mask, and no one phones the police.

In a supermarket, someone picks up two packs of luxury toilet paper and everyone around hates them.

Two people approach each other on the pavement, they try to keep their distance, but neither knows whether to go left or right, so they zig-zag like drunks avoiding lamp posts.

Rich celebrities appear on social media, telling us how they are self-isolating. Some of them self-isolate in their large houses. Some self isolate in their country estates. Some self-isolate in one continent, and then fly to another continent so they can self-isolate there as well.

Personally, I stay sane by lining up chardonnay bottles, each filled with a different amount of water, and then tapping them with a wooden spoon. This produces a pleasing noise, which I find very soothing. As the days have gone on, my WinoSpiel (patent pending) has grown in size so that it now occupies a large part of the lounge, with the high notes out on the balcony.

Speaking of surreal, I am reminded of that day, many years ago, when I was serving drinks in the White Horse Bar. It was Christmas Eve, it was late, and my only remaining customer was a wealthy banker from The City.

He drained his Traffic Bollard cocktail (so-called due to its aphrodisiac properties) and jabbed a finger at me. “I fucking love Christmas,” he said.

I agreed. Season of goodwill, and all that nice, fluffy stuff.

“Balls. Don’t give a toss about anyone else. I love Christmas because I get a glistening, obese, wobbly bonus.”

I passed him another cocktail. “Maybe you should give some to charity?”

“Nah. That’s what the ghosts said.”

I took a moment to wipe a glass. “Ghosts?”

“Yes, you fucking deaf or something? Three ghosts, what visited me last Christmas Eve.”

“Right.”

“Past, present and future,” he said, handily summarising the entire plot of this blog entry in one sentence.

“I’m thinking,” I said, “that they perhaps wanted you to change your ways?”

“Exactly. Showed me bad stuff I’d done. I’d forgotten most of it. Made me laugh though. Especially the bit about my movie company, and Tiny Toby.”

“Who?”

He explained all about Tiny Toby, in some detail, an experience that left me feeling just a little bit grubby.

“We put him in two hundred films in two years and only let him retire when his colon collapsed.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Apparently.”

I started polishing another glass. “So, uh, after all the, uh, ghosts and stuff, were you a better person?”

He stared at me. “No. I spent the Christmas break working out how to strip the assets from a factory I’d just bought. Three hundred redundancies and the entire production line shipped to Hungary, thank you very much.”

“Wow,” I said. “You really are a bastard.”

“You know what,” he said, “that’s what the ghost of Christmas Future said to me when I laughed at those scenes of me flogging sub-standard PPE for a massive profit to NHS workers.”

I frowned. “PP what?”

I know, right? Strange but true.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Back to Reality

Good news everyone! The White Horse Bar, down in the basement of No. 10 Downing Street, has reopened!

Of course, there are very strict rules in place to ensure everyone’s health and well-being while they’re in the bar, steadily drinking themselves stupid on booze, and I was more than happy to comply with them. Well, when I say ‘happy’ I mean resigned. And when I say ‘comply’ I mean ‘Seriously? Which fucking idiot on which fucking committee thought up this gem of time-wasting bullshit?’

Well, it was late in the evening and as the clientele got more and more wankered, so the problems with the ‘social distancing’ regulations became more and more apparent.

I pointed at the honourable member for Pinching East. “Right, you can step forward.”

Pinching East duly did so, clutching his empty glass. “I say,” he said, “I’ll have another of those cocktails. What was it called?”

“Pink and Perky,” I told him.

“That’s the fella.”

Behind him, in a row across the bar like they were waiting for "Achy Breaky Heart" to start playing, were most of the Labour front bench, and one independent from Slapping on the Mound. He was, it seemed, getting a  bit irritated. “I just want some bloody crisps,” I heard him mutter.

I ignored him. I gave Pinching East his cocktail. “Right, now you step back four paces… that’s it…” I turned to Sir Keir Starmer. “Your turn. Four paces forward.”

He obediently approached. “I’d like-”

“Hang on.” I had detected unauthorized movement from the Shadow Secretary of State for Work and Pensions. “Oi,” I snapped. “Stay in line, if you don’t mind.”

“I need the bloody toilet,” he said.

“Can’t help that. If you go to the loo I’ll have to move the Shadow Home Secretary three yards to the right which will put him in the corridor.”

“How about if I go back a bit?” Suggested the Shadow Foreign Secretary.

“You’d have to climb over that table,” I pointed out.

“Well, we should move the table,” said Sir Keir Starmer. He actually started to head in that direction. I couldn’t believe it.

“Oi! You bloody well go back to where you were, if you don’t mind. If you go anywhere near that table that’ll put you within killing distance of three of your own front bench.”

Shadow Work and Pensions was wincing. “I don’t want to be a pest,” he said, “but I really do need a piss.”

“I have an idea,” said Shadow Education Secretary. “I could get behind the bar, which would make space for the Shadow Foreign Secretary to move forward, which would allow for Shadow Work and Pensions to nip to the loo.”

There was a general muttering of approval.

“All those in favour?” Sir Keir Starmer asked.

“Excuse me!” I butted in, and with good reason. “I’m already behind the bar, if you haven't noticed, and I’m not letting anyone just barge in here and start giving me germs.”

“You could climb on top of the bar,” said Sir Keir Starmer.

“Oh, no, no,” objected Shadow Health and Social Care. “He might fall off. Also, he’s not wearing any safety equipment. No hard hat, no boots, no high-vis jacket, I mean, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.”

“Alright, well he could, um crouch under the bar, to make room.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

“I know,” slurred the Independant from Slapping on the Mound. “He could climb up onto the shelf, next to the pork pies.”

We all, as one, crushed him with our contempt.

“Just saying,” he muttered.

“Bollocks to this,” exclaimed Work and Pensions, “if I don’t go now I’ll piss myself.” With that he brushed past at least three of his colleagues and disappeared into the corridor.

“Oh my God,” exclaimed the Shadow International Trade Secretary, and began rubbing her hands with sanitizer.

“It’ll be fine,” Sir Keir Starmer assured her. “He had a slight cough days ago but nothing since.”

“A cough? What the bloody hell?” The Shadow International Trade Secretary went pale, then started rubbing sanitizer ever more vigorously into her hands, and onto her arms.

“I’ll have that after you,” said Shadow Health and Social Care.

As you can imagine, things got a bit hectic and I decided to close the bar. Probably for the best, what with people getting all worried about germs, and, as it turned out, Work and Pensions not quite making it to the toilet in time.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

More Lockdown

I have been keeping myself busy with several projects during this lockdown. My bathroom, for instance, has been decorated with pictures of Zac Efron that I found on the web and printed off. After a hot shower, the ink runs a bit and he looks like he’s crying. As well he should, seeing as I am not there to comfort him.

Apart from that, I have also created a sculpture in my lounge, made entirely of wire coat hangers, on which I have draped some of my clothes. Every other day, I change the clothes. The irony here should be obvious. I took several photos, over several days, to showcase what can only be described as high art, and sent them off to Charles Saatchi, but he hasn’t replied. Bastard.

I have also been thinking back over the many years during which I ran the White Horse bar, and, of course, recalling the characters who came and went. Which makes it sound a little bit like a brothel, only it isn’t.

It’s important, when running a bar, to keep the pipes clean, the pork pies free of mould, and the lights low. That’s when the conversation starts to get interesting.

It was a few years ago. David Cameron, Prime Minister, was finishing off a ‘Ring Doughnut’. He sucked the last drops off the asparagus and then pushed the empty glass towards me. “Monty,” he said, with that earnest expression he always adopted when being earnest, or not quite understanding what was being said to him, or drunk, “this Brexit thing is just a blip,yeah? I mean, after the referendum, it’s goodnight Brexit, and you, Mr Farage,can fuck off.”

“Suppose Brexit wins?”

David seemed confused.

“You know, people vote to leave.”

“But they won’t.”

“They might.”

“But they won’t.”

“Uh, well, let’s just assume they do.”

“But they won’t.”

I gave up. His earnest and slightly puzzled expression was beginning to wear me down. “Another pork pie?”

“Yes, good idea. You know, Monty, Brexit is just like a pork pie.”

“What, you mean it looks amazing but you know it’s bad for you?”

“Uh..” David was clearly having a problem with that one.

“Do you mean, it’s got a hard crust, but basically inside is mostly air?”

“Not quite sure what you mean…?”

“It’s made of recycled leftovers?”

David’s eyes narrowed, as if limiting the amount of light entering his head might help his brain to process this baffling puzzle.

“Another Ring Doughnut?”

“Yes please.”

At that moment, who should come bouncing into the bar but Nick Clegg, the Deputy Prime Minister. He had, he explained, been working late on the Remain slogan. “I reckon,” he confided, “that we’ve cracked it. We have a slogan that sums up the utter insanity, the lunacy, the, the shameless stupidity of leaving those good, honest people of Europe…” he paused, his lip quivering.

I passed him a tissue.

“Thanks, Monty.” He dabbed his eyes, then blew his nose. 

I didn’t need to be asked. I splashed some Babycham into a half pint mug and pushed it across to him.

“So, uh, what’s the slogan?”

“Ah, now, I was just thinking about pork pies,” David put in.

“David, please.” Nick shook his head. 

David subsided.

Nick continued, “Well, no harm in telling you. Our new slogan will be all over the headlines in an hour.”

“Exciting,” I said. “And the slogan is?”

Nick spread his hands, as if in a state of grace. “What would Jesus do?”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the slogan.”

“Wow. And, uh, why?”

“We want people to think about what Europe means to them.”

“Yes. But why Jesus?”

Nick smiled. “Exactly.”

It was my turn to look baffled, bewildered, lost.

David stepped in. “Jesus,” he said. “he fucking loved pork pies.”

“Oh God,” said Nick.

“Also a good slogan,” I added.

We left it there. Thankfully, Nick Clegg and his Remain team came up with a much better slogan at the last minute although it didn’t do them any good. Maybe they should have gone with the pork pies. History, and the title of this blog, would have been very different.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Lockdown #5

We live in an age of great trials and hardships. I am reminded of how we carried ourselves, with dignity and courage, during the war. We did not shirk our responsibilities, or indeed, turn away from our...um…

Fuck it, this lockdown is getting to me. I’m starting to sound like the Queen.

While I’m on the subject, let me say that if I hear just one more pompous oaf compare this epidemic with World War Two, I will not be held responsible for what I do next. I don’t pretend to be an expert on the war,but I am fairly certain that Hitler did not threaten the allies with a flu outbreak. No one, during the blitz, or the Battle of Britain, or the escape from Stalag 57, was ordered to stay at least 2 metres away from everyone else. At no point during the US campaign to take the south Pacific islands, were their soldiers arrested for sunbathing. 

I could go on, but instead it’s time to go back into the archives and remember a moment from the long history of the White Horse Bar, which has been serving drinks and wisdom and, indeed, pork pies, to the political elite, and not-so-elite, for many years.

It was Friday evening, and the bar had been hired for a special occasion.

Vice Admiral the Lord Rimming stared at me. “You understand,” he croaked, “that no one must enter, once we have struck the Gong of Secrecy?”

“Yes, gong, absolutely,” I assured him,making a note.

“Also,” he continued, “you must at all times avoid eye contact with all those involved in the Ceremony.”

“Definitely.”

“Especially during the Ceremony of the Parting of the Thighs?”

“Yes, the, ah, what did you say?”

“Don’t question me, boy.”

“No sir,of course not.” I humbly wrote ‘thighs’ on my pad.

“Neither must you stare at anyone whilst we carry out the Ritual of the Hamster.”

“Yes.”

“Following which, there will be an interlude, while the Sacrificial Toad of Unity gets into his costume.”

“Ah, now, is that when I serve the Canapés?”

“Yes, you blithering fool. Did not the Home Secretary tell you this?”

“Um, may have mentioned it.”

“Well, don’t forget. And ensure that the prosecco is suitably chilled.”

“Of course.”

“Finally, make sure you’re on hand with a sponge. The Grand Master is inclined to get carried away during the Touching of the Jelly, and it tends to spatter. If I give you this signal…” He mimed eating a sausage roll…”then come forward with the sponge. If I give you this signal…” he mimed putting on overalls. Or possibly it was some 70s disco move. “Then you must pass around the ice bucket. Is all that perfectly clear?”

I assured Lord Rimming that it most certainly was. I took the opportunity to confirm the guest list.

He reeled off a good many names, all of them male,none of which I shall share because, well, I’m not fucking stupid.

“Hmph. Well, I shall leave you to prepare this space, using the appropriate ceremonies.”

Well, I told myself, as I set up the altar and hid the pork pies, just think of the money.

Needless to say, a fun time was had by all, and cleaning up afterwards wasn’t too bad, I mean, just one sniff of bleach and jelly basically evaporates.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

The Election

Well, I don’t know about you, but Thursday 12th December 2019 was a fucking nightmare for me.

The first clue that something was not right came early in the morning. I was in my bar, down in the basement of Number Ten Downing Street, cleaning a few pumps and flicking a duster around the pork pies and stifling a yawn. That was when the first zombie appeared.

No idea who it was. Some random intern? Possibly someone from the front desk? It was wearing a dress, but then, that doesn’t mean much these days. It shambled in, bringing a nasty whiff of something that had been stuck behind the fridge for too long.

I glanced up, and sighed. “We’re not open yet. Not until ten am. It says, very clearly on the sign outside- “

“Uuuungh.” It waved its arms.

“What?”

“Uuurgghh.”

“No, you can’t vote here. This is a bar. Not a voting station. Go and ask someone at reception.”

“Ungh.” It lowered its head and slowly shuffled out.

“Fucking zombies,” I muttered, and went back to pushing a pipe cleaner up the lager tap.

A minute later, I sniffed the air. I glanced around at the deserted bar, then sniffed my sleeve, then checked my shoes.

“Aaaagh!”

“Bugger.”

Another zombie came in. This one seemed to be slightly agitated. It peered at me through what was left of its single eyeball, then waved a piece of paper at me. “Bluuugh?”

I took the paper, reluctantly, between thumb and forefinger. “No, this is not a voting station. I just told your friend that.”

“Huuurlp?”

“Your mate, the other, you know… the other one.”

“Uck!”

“Fine, ok, sorry, no offense meant.  All I’m saying is, this is a bar, not a voting station.”

“Ubbbbb?”

“No, we’re not open until ten, come back then. In the meantime, if you don’t mind?” I made ushering motions towards the door. The zombie gave me a disgusted look, shuffled around and lurched out.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, rubbing zombie blood off the pork pies.

I admit that I’ve been to a lot of places and seen a lot of strange things, but this, this was just wrong. There was a large sign outside that clearly said, we do not open until ten am. What was wrong with people?

Another appeared a minute later, closely followed by a friend. They both lurched towards me. I stopped my dusting and groaned in despair.

The first held out its hands towards me. “Brainths!”

“What?”

“Brainths! Want brainths!”

“We’re not open. I can’t sell you anything.”

“Brainths?”

“No, not even a pack of crisps, so if there’s nothing else?”

The zombie hesitated, then patted its ragged, stained pockets, avoiding my eyes as it did so. Finally, looking a little sheepish, it turned to its friend and waved a bloody stump of a hand.

“Uuunngh.” Its friend bobbed its head, and handed over some paperwork which zombie number one put on the counter.

I glanced at it and took a deep breath. “This is not a voting station. I mean, why? Why even ask me that? There’s no sign out there that says, ‘This is a voting station’. No, the only sign out there is one that says, very clearly, we don’t open until ten am. Got it?”

The zombie twisted its ragged face into a snarl. It lent closer. “Brainths!”

“You’re barred,” I snapped.

Its friend stumbled forward. “Brainths!”

I pointed. “And you, in the braces, you’re barred as well. Now both of you, sod off before I call security.”

“Unngh!”

“Bleeeeergh!”

“And the same to you!” I shouted after them as they indignantly withdrew and shuffled away.

Well, I’d had enough. I turned the lights off, locked up and went home for the day.

I did watch the evening news, to see what was happening with this zombie apocalypse thing, but guess what, not a murmur. No, it was all bloody election this, landslide that, overpaid journos prodding oversized iPads just to tell us that Dave in Swansea had lost his seat, why they can’t just use a flip chart and a fucking marker pen is beyond me. I went to bed in a steaming hump and I’m still pissed off now, so just don’t mention zombies or elections or Dave in Swansea, if you don’t mind.

[paulmay42]

The Brexit Years

Disease

Edna Ringpiece, BBC news correspondent and mistress of fake news, fake eyelashes and probably fake orgasms, mechanically pushed peanuts into her mouth as she told me about the measures that the BBC is taking to protect its staff against The Virus. “So, we’ve been told to not touch anything,” she said, reaching for more peanuts. “Well, I said to them, how am I supposed to use the iPad you gave me?”

“Why do you need an iPad?” I was polishing the bar-top. In truth, my heart wasn’t in it. Since the whole corona thing broke, my bar has been quieter than a gay democrat who accidentally finds himself at an NRA rally. I was that bored, I was actually pleased to see her.

“I don’t need an iPad,” Edna mumbled around a mouthful of peanuts. “None of us do, some knob in production thought it would make us look more professional if we could stand there on camera, with an iPad. I’ve never even turned it on.”

“Academic now,” I said. “If you can’t even touch it.”

“That’s not the best part. They said you can touch the iPad all through the broadcast, then we’ll take it off you afterwards and burn it.”

“Really? Isn’t that a waste of money?”

Edna, bless her, gave me a blank look.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Well, anyway, I heard they made a deal with Apple so that all the unwanted iPads get burnt in a special Apple incinerator, which then generates electricity to power their shop on Regent Street. I heard Apple are encouraging schools and colleges and local government to burn their iPads as well. Apple reckon if enough people burn their iPads, their store could be carbon neutral by 2025.”

“How very green. Um, don’t want to be picky but is that really going to protect you against the virus?”

“Well now,” Edna said, waving a finger at me, and with the other hand grabbing more peanuts from the bowl, “you might well ask, my old mate. We’ve been told to avoid getting too close to certain celebrities, because allegedly,” she said, looking out at the wider world and especially at any legal professionals who might be watching, “there are certain celebrities who, and I choose my words carefully…”

“Too fucking right,” I muttered, mopping up a grease spot next to the display of pork pies.

“… who are, like, really old. So, the BBC doesn’t want to be responsible for passing on germs that actually kill old people. I mean, the entire Royal Family Liaison Unit has gone into voluntary isolation.”

“Good idea. What about the House of Lords?”

Edna paused in crunching peanuts. “Ooh, fuck. I was down to interview three labour peers tomorrow.”

“Probs best not to.”

“Yes. Good point.”

“What about germs?”

Edna, and not for the first time, looked a little puzzled. If not blank.

“Germs,” I prompted. “Virus germs.”

“Oh yes. Yes, germs. We had a three-hour presentation about germs.”

“From whom?”

“Some consultant firm that the BBC hired to, um, make presentations. What was their name… ‘Germs-R-Us’ or something? Anyway, they told us about germs.” Edna gave me a very direct look. “Monty, now don’t take this the wrong way, but you really should change a few things around here to make this co-habiting space more germ-wise exclusivational.”

Probably, at this point, I looked like a man on the edge. I’d had little or no business for several days. I’d been trying to balance the demands of suppliers and landlord against the realities of cashflow. I’d spent too much time staring into space and wondering if Zac Efron was still single.

Edna was still speaking. “According to Germs-R-Us, a space like this should be deep cleaned every two hours, by people in hazmat suits, with special, um, deep cleaning things, and iPads.”

“Excuse me?”

Edna was frowning, as she always did when she was trying to remember something that she had heard but had not really bothered listening to. “Definitely iPads,” she said.

I watched as she reached for more peanuts. “Did they say anything about peanuts?” I asked.

“No. Don’t be daft. But they did say iPads, and, um, once you’d used the iPad, you should, um…”

“…Get it incinerated?”

“Yes.”

“Were they sponsored by Apple?”

Edna shrugged. “Not the point, Monty. This is bigger than Apple. This is a thing.”

“Pandemic?”

“Yes.”

“Edna,” I said, “I do believe that the BBC has entirely the right idea.”

Edna paused in the act of eating peanuts, mouth half open. “Really?”

“Yes,” I said. “That latest plot line for EastEnders is just genius. Mind you, when it comes to germs, they’re fucking useless.”