Trust is not enough

The response, after an autopsy had been performed on the box, was one that I had become accustomed to expect. “What do you think of this, Colin?” But, before Colin had an opportunity to reply Chris had already launched into his, by now, predictable incomprehensible tirade against the piece of shit that was offered as a quality replacement gearbox.

 “Look at the fuckin’ state of it, there’s hermatite holding it together, the outshaft is loose, it doesn’t have a gearstick, oil is pissing out of it, it has the wrong prop flange, it is an absolute piece of crap, you should never trust a scrap man, they are all liars and thieves, they couldn’t even lie straight in bed, fuckin’ conmen: you’ll have to take it back!” At this point I did recall that it really was not my idea to buy the box, having a perfectly sound, proven, guaranteed box of my own. I have always been confused even slightly baffled by the necessity to ‘shell out’ £250 for a risky, dodgy, totally unwarranted lump of rusting metal. I am sure that I would be much more of a Christian if I gave my money away to the homeless and destitute, the old and infirmed, the local cats and dogs refuge, the Monday club piss heads in Sam’s bar, every thirteen year old mother of two snotty screaming, malnourished sprogs, scummy, grubby tatooed chavs who throw litter gobbing in the streets, crusty, grey wrinklies who drive at 20fuckin’5miles an hour, the wide arsed fat fuckers who block the escalator at Tesco or even to those patronising, soap dodging fuckin’ students behind the bar at the Oak.

Once the dust had settled and the inquest was over, concerning the ‘box’, attentions were turned towards the ‘shagged out’ Spitfire seats. Covered in dirty, torn vinyl with broken crumbling frames they matched, perfectly, the condition of the box. No need to bother, I thought, they, like the box, will be returned on Monday. So, I had, yet again, been sent on mission impossible. Why is it only myself who seems to be aware of that fact?                                                                                               

 There is trouble ‘t mill at the Oak. Recently, the vault has not been it’s usual vibrant self. Numbers have dwindled, the atmosphere has evaporated; further adding to the destruction of the ozone layer, key staff, if there is such a thing, Fat Matt with his £1500 tattoo and Simon, piercing boy, have abandoned ship, serious questions are being asked about the quality of the beer. Most importantly, the drinking habits, the apparent lack of work commitment and sanity of The Doc have all been thoroughly examined. The hounds had scented blood on Sunday afternoon ruthlessly and systematically picking away at the present demise. The beer is flat, the pub is dirty, the odd drunken degenerate who was once accepted has become despised, the free tasty snacks are now more infrequent, the staff, who have always, justifiably, suffered poisonous criticism, are even more convincingly disinterested and Chris Doc is missing. The ship is rudderless and adrift.

There only remained Lowtie, Chris, Jo and I to strip the bones, clean the blood from the knives and jump ship to the Bowling Green where the inquest continued with persistent, unforgiving vigour. Lowtie claimed that the tasteless nature of the beer was due to ‘palette fade’ pointing to the fact that Chris, who was fast becoming the leading protagonist, had already consumed four pints of Tetleys in the Zoo bar at Sams’, had Stella, Deuchars and Draught Bass in the Oak and so was possibly suffering from a degenerative ‘en gout’ disorder. “That’s bollocks, listen, listen, no listen, I’ll tell you what ails me, I am pissed off with spending over 100 quid every week, drinking crap ale, being insulted by those fuckin’ lazy students; the fuckin’ tax dodgers and ‘pertinent and relevant’ talking shite. I’m never going in again!” Succinct and probably very true.