Eviction

Mon.6.08.07. It has been a day of re-planning the dash, console along with the general cockpit area. I have returned mid afternoon with various broken bits of cardboard, MDF and plywood that were the previous ‘definitive’ models. I am realising lamentably, that this concept called ‘definitive’ is a state of ‘nirvana, paradise, heaven, utopia or winning the lotto’, all of which are invariably impossible to attain, are perpetually illusive, consistently unbearably unachievable. Nevertheless, I sped around to my local B+Q to buy yet more MDF and, better still, ‘bendy MDF. The bendy stuff can be shaped every which way and so the nuances of the most recent design can be easily achieved, or so I am informed.

Eviction.

Late on Sunday night after a gallon of Deuchars the Doc stunned every one by announcing that he was about to be evicted. Chris whispered this revelation early in the evening supporting his information after having spoken to Billy Green earlier that day. Bill, above all, even after a liquid afternoon is still capable of picking up and even more crucially actually remembering such gossip the day afterwards unlike most people, myself included, who find such drunken babble rapidly disappears down the vacuous black hole referred as the ‘memory’. Both Chris and I began to speculate about the stubborn temperament that exemplifies the Doc. Looking at the most recent rain damage above the bar, the debate ensued as to whom’s responsibility it would actual be to repair the swollen ceiling. We both imagined the ‘Old American stand off’; gunslingers, index finger twitching, Serge Leone twanging in the background. “That’s what he’s done, he’s dug his heels in, he’s claiming that it is brewery’s responsibility and not his.” I can just hear him banging on- I won’t pay for the work as long as I have got a hole in my arse, furthermore, consider this, you’re not getting your rent until YOU pay for it- This scenario always finishes tits up with the bigger fish eating the small one. “They call this the food chain, Ni, trust me, trust me”, proposed Chris. “Think about it, Ni, that’s what he’s done, he’s upset the brewery and they’re booting him out!” Lowtie subsequently arrived to add to the speculation, speaking over three fields he reinforces the theory of non payment of rent. “The flood damage has got to him, he’s finally cracked, the walls are tumbling down, Prince Ferdinand has been assassinated, the Germans have invaded Poland, France has capitulated, he’s doomed!” Why Lowtie should always compare the slightest problem with the Great world Wars only he knows. Andy Lewis strolls to bar, Chris cops for another drink, but he doesn’t mind so much because Andy could perhaps add another twist to the story. “What do you think, Andy, about the Doc being evicted, tonight, by the brewery; he’s an obstinate, Bolshie bugger, it’s just like him to self destruct on a matter of principle. Bloody ‘ell, it’s just occurred to me there’s no where we can go for a drink, we’ll be wandering around, like the last time he spit his dummy out, like the Tuareg of Swinley, dipping in, not welcomed, unwanted, to the ‘fast and loose’ and ‘costcutters’, the right arm severed at the shoulder!”

“Is he not being evicted from David’s land, not the pub, because of the damage to Adele’s lawn? I don’t think Cockney Mick’s explanation of a stampede of rogue Roe deer, their tiny hooves churning up the ground like a 3 ton Massey Furguson, was actually believed by Adele. I think that maybe, Adele has had a quiet word with Paul to find a new home for the pigs. I would guess that her stables bulging with pig nuts, a scrap Discovery listing heavily in a newly created bog, a faulty electrical fence unable to contain the saddlebacks but worst of all a ruined family lawn at the height of summer may have something to do with ‘an eviction.”     

The laughter inevitably died down as David strolled in. “Hey mate, what’s this about your missus evicting the Doc, tearing a strip off Paul but moreover ejecting our pigs from Southpork?” asked Chris, diplomatically.