A wicked sense of humour.
Luckily for me, I’d bought a run-down ex-sweet shop of a house with no heating and spectacular views across the valley at the top of the village two years before the boom. Locals had become close friends and the pub next door my salvation. Fed up with watching me nurse a pint all night in front of the open fire in order to stay warm the owners had offered me a job behind the bar. The initial week was a disaster. Interpreting drink orders issued in broad midlands accents (sounds like someone trying to talk with a mouth stuffed with a sock) peppered with colloquialisms was, to say the least, challenging. But these Northerners were a good humoured crowd and stood patiently and waited for their turn whilst I grappled with the language barrier. Sometimes someone would slip behind the bar and help me out translating along the way. I grew to love the job and the pub’s local characters, especially the old men that frequented the bar at early doors. Often it was just me and Martin for the first hour. Seventy five years old, widowed, still spritely and good company he would while away time reminiscing about his life and playing songs on his harmonica that once charmed his girlfriend into becoming his wife.
One night one of my friends, Steve, a regular drinker at the pub came in for last orders. He had a black eye and a nasty cut down the side of his bruised swollen face. “What have you been up to?” I asked as I put a pint down in front of him. He wouldn’t say. I badgered him until it was drinking up time. Finally he caved and promised to tell me when the bar had emptied.
At that time the village’s hanging plant pot population had been on the move. House owners would go to bed with their own basket and wake up in the morning to find it replaced with someone else’s. In streets where most houses possessed one it was causing chaos. The culprit was still at large and enforced relocations had been going on for weeks. The local population were enjoying the joke as it was being played on the outsiders and the village drums were alight with speculation and suspicion.
When everyone left and Steve and I were alone he came clean. Some weeks back, on his way home from a late night drinking session, he’d walked down one of the over-decorated streets. The pavement, being on the narrow side, meant that passing under the baskets was a given. Steve was local and had watched as house prices escalated beyond his means. As he weaved his way through trailing creepers and vines he had an idea. It started off with a few swaps as a joke but had grown to a full on protest against hanging baskets and all that they represented. The night before he’d started his attack in the early hours as usual and had tripped over one of the wire baskets he was trying to move. Falling heavily he hit his head on the kerb, passed out and woke a few minutes later concussed and entangled in the object of his ire.
Much to the disappointment of the local population, the night of the confession was the last night that ornamental dangling plant population went walk about. But it was excellent fun while it lasted. I am so blessed with friends that have a wicked sense of humour.
Wonderful. Steve is a man of my heart. I’m a ‘white rose’ myself, but the ‘red rose’ humour is similar! Looking forward to your Africa stories.
Oh I miss the North and the Martin’s and the Steve’s that make the communities as they are. Thank you for this. It brought a smile and fond memories this morning 🙂
Great to read about my home stomping ground, I was born and bred in Manchester and now live in Sydney, Australia. Enjoying your blog. Also liked Orange Peel and Rub Rub. 🙂
Thank you Tina, I lived in Bollington for a number of years and now live in Melbourne on and off = how do you find Australia?
Enjoying your site. Long time since I lived in the north-west, but it’s good to re-visit. ( Via the internet) 🙂
Really enjoyed your tale as well as Chancedagger’s above. Hysterical! Thanks for the like on an earlier post of mine, “Quick Glimpse-NYC”. Appreciate the nod, you skinny wench!
Just one small point.Were the Brummies the “in-comers” or,the locals? If they were the in-comers,I have no quibble.However,if they were the locals,they can’t be classed as such. I’m from Cheshire and,no way can I claim to be a real “northener” as,I’m on the very edge of Northof England even though it’s only 20 or so to Manchester. This is no way a complaint rather,I’m just a bit confused on the point. Liked your post all the same,wish I had your story telling abilities!
Think I need to read the blog again to understand what you are talking about – I was talking about Southerners coming up from London.
Thanks for visiting and liking my post. I look forward to reading about all your travels!
Maybe we can stop in and visit the pub. I will be in Burnley..not far from Manchester. They are a wickedly good humored people and romantic as the day is long..Gotta love it!
How long did you stay working at the pub?
What a wonderful and sad story…
about 2 years
This is such a fantastic story!!!!! 😀 I was enthralled till the last disappointing moment (when the switching stopped) and naturally cheering on the locals… Loved it!
Both humour and a certain twinge of sadness here….thanks for the good read
Thank you TWM – I like to make stories entertaining – 🙂
Great post. I’m from Manchester (Cheadle) and wondering if I might know the village? Thanks for the visit btw,
Ah well if you are from Chea0dle you know Bollington!
Interestingly not! I’ve just looked it up on Google Earth and I don’t think I would have even accidentally wandered into Bollington
Shame – it was alleged to have to most pubs in an English village!!!!!
What a wonderful, fun, and funny story. Thanks for sharing.
I’ve been reading PD James lately and am enamoured with all things England. This was such fun reading. Thank you.
Yes it is a very British story – they have such a wry senseof humour and can laugh at themselves
Lovely story. Some 25 years ago when I lived in Washington, DC in a townhoused neighborhood around Dupont Circle, I was walking down a street and noticed a series of little white flags, sticking out of the grass strip that ran between the curb and sidewalk. I looked up and all the way down the street were these little flags. I arrived at my host’s house and asked him if he knew about the little flags. He did. A lawyer friend of his had been over the night before, drinking into the early hours. This lawyer was incensed by dog owners who did not pick up after their animal crapped on the grass. Back then, only the very virtuous did this. So the lawyer staggered home, fashioned the little flags, and returned, placing one flag per turd as his way of highlighting the problem. Small towns and neighborhoods generate the most wonderful tales. Situated in a pub as you are, you are going to get the real news.
That is a good story 🙂
Ha ha!! Very amusing!
I thought so Lu – thanks
I love it! I want to visit your pub!
It was an entertaining time