Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Friday, 16 December 2016
Are you looking at my pint?
This is the rather charming chair which has caused so much bad feeling amongst so many different people recently. It looks so innocent, doesn't it?
The fact that I pulled it out of a skip should mean - if I ever said so - that its monetary value was of no particular concern to me. Anything over the two pints of beer that I paid to have it straightened out would be more than enough compensation, so that bloody antique-dealer (and a few others) might have believed me when I explained why I withdrew it from the sale. I have withdrawn it from Gumtree now as well.
Why? Because the daughter of an old friend told me a couple of nights ago that she has opened up an antique shop here in Bath - which specialises in garden furniture. I really like her, so I am delivering it to her shop today, and I don't care what money she gives me if and when she sells it. I pulled it out of the skip because I thought it would be a tragedy to scrap it, and - as with the snowflakes - I don't care if I am not believed. One way or another, it will go to a good home where it is appreciated.
That Lad got beaten-up in a takeaway in Bristol last night - by the owner of the takeaway. This seems to happen to him more than anyone else I know, and I think it has something to do with the way he handles being somewhat drunk. In short, I have come to believe he must somehow attract it, otherwise it would have been another customer, and not the owner who hit him.
Years ago, he was thrown from a balcony of a nightclub in a different town. He said he did nothing to provoke the attacker, and he survived with bruising and grazing, having broken his fall on the balcony below before reaching the ground.
Because he was a minor at the time (he shouldn't have been allowed in the nighclub) I insisted that it was a matter for the police, and booked an appointment at the station for the next day. This could have been attempted murder as far as I was concerned.
The next day arrived, and I had to drag him out of bed. We arrived at the police station, and the inspector came out to talk to us. She was in the uniform of of a policewoman, but we were both somewhat distracted by a five o'clock shadow on her face that denoted a thick growth of beard which looked as though she needed to shave twice a day. I became obsessed with speculation as she asked some simple questions, but she was as intuitive and observant as a good police oficer should be.
"I think there is something you are not telling me," she said, "I think that there is more to this than meets the eye."
The Lad did not contradict her, charges were not pressed, and she vowed to have a word with the nightclub about their admission policy.
Now when I hear what happened in Bristol, I remember her beard.