Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Saturday, 13 October 2012
Fair play and foul language
I was a little longer in the boozer last night than normal, and spent most of the time behaving inappropriately with one off-duty barmaid whilst simultaneously discussing the impossibility of a full-blown, carnal love-affair with an on-duty one, citing the biggest obstacle to our future happiness as the 40-year age difference.
The off-duty one was (and still is) French, and confided in me that - though she speaks near-perfect English - she could not swear. I checked to see if she meant 'would not' instead of 'could not', but she assured me that she knew and meant what she had said.
So I spent a happy ten minutes or so teaching her some rudimentary obscenities to practice with on her fellow workers.
This girl seems to have been brought up very well, and speaks with a shy, well-modulated and quiet voice, so you can imagine the reaction when - on my instruction - she greeted the returning barmaid (yes, that one), by sweetly saying, "F*** off, you c***!", with just a the hint of a Parisian accent. Excuse my French.
Thus engaged in these innocent pastimes, the hours flew by so quickly that I had missed 'The Archers' by the time I rolled home, and our late dinner was interrupted by bereaved niece, who phoned halfway through. I was on the blower to her for a full two hours, so my dinner got too cold to eat, but the wine was still acceptable. It was gone midnight by the time we hung up on each other, but I still had some libellous emails to send before I could rest. I still have the remains of the foul headache which I woke up with, if that makes you feel any better about me.
You may remember that - about three years ago - I instigated a shooting competition amongst my gun-toting friends, and the tiny, solid silver cup which I donated to the club can be won by the contestant who hits the most overhead clays using a .410 shotgun, every October.
Before this comp. was started, many people thought that it was near impossible to hit any clays at all with a gun so small, but now they have tried, the silver trophy is fiercely fought over. The winner of this years .410 competition was an erstwhile chairman, who hit 18 out of a possible 24. This is a very high score for a light, small-calibre gun, because the 'swing' needed to keep track of a fast moving clay is very difficult to maintain compared to a heavy 12-bore.
Just before I began teaching English to the French girl, a club member came into the pub and began talking about the winner of the trophy and how he achieved his score. I had not been at the event, so it came as a surprise to learn that he had strapped a length of lead-pipe to the underside of his barrels to increase the weight and make the 'swing' a lot easier and steadier.
"He hasn't exactly broken any rules, as far as I can tell," the member said, "but it's not exactly in the spirit of the competition, is it?"
I had to remind him that - since it was me who invented this competition - I was the one who decided whether or not any rules had been broken. He asked if any had, and I replied that I didn't know yet, as I had not got around to writing any, even though the competition has been running for three years.
So at around midnight last night, I sent a group email to the club informing them that I had stripped the winner of his title (for breaching rule 7, section C13), and instructed him to relinquish the cup to the second-best shot of the day without any unseemly fuss.
This morning, I received an email reply from him which included a quote from his hero, Charlton Heston, big-gun in the NRA.