Delayed progress

                                         Burlington Diary April 2008

 Mon.14.04.08. I have returned from my French trip to find that Chris has spent very little time on the project: which is not really surprising considering that he has had greater demands from the ‘kitchen’. Nonetheless I shall kick start the show by making several phone calls to some of the providers; namely, Michael of Premier Auto trim, Aidpack for the illusive stainless nuts and bolts as well as Andy of Europa for the softer front springs.

The original stories regarding the darts game is on 07.10.07. But there has been a more recent development.

On Sunday 13.04.08 we were joined in the Oak by some of the Bowling Green locals: these were people we had met whilst we were in exile, until the Oak had been totally renovated. Stuart the token scouser, Big Paul the affable hulk, laughing Graham, peaceful Sarah, plus foulmouthed Sam, the tart with the heart from behind the bar, had congregated in the lounge. As to why they had decided to abandon the Bowlie for an afternoon of darts remains a mystery, but they were co-opted into either team to make up the healthy ‘eleven a side’ numbers. Foulmouthed Sam is probably the best barmaid in the Borough; she could have run the pub solely on her own such was her dexterity with multi-orders ably supported by a quickness of crude wit. Impatient customers were gratuitously shot down with rapid fiercely delivered verbal abuse, which flowed effortlessly from her charming lips. She could have had a job for life if she had not informed Tracy, the landlady, that she was, in her opinion, a ‘stupid fucker’. She had the tarts uniform of shoulder length bleached blond hair, pink lips, exposed, studded midriff assisted by a token minute denim skirt. Her reputation had preceded her down the lane as she has now been barred from every pub due to her intolerance of authority punctuated by the richness of her tongue. The Oak is her last chance saloon. Unfortunately she opened her first attempt from the ‘ocki’ with, “I’ve never played this fucking game before so don’t blame me if I miss the fucking board”. She was immediately called to order by Chris who reminded her that it was Sunday and that her team captain was in fact a preacher. “Sorry I didn’t fucking know” was her innocent response. The game had been enjoyable from the off as new blood meant that everyone, especially Chris, was slightly showing off to the new members. All the old banter was back; as competent throws were appreciated together with incompetent awful displays of hand to eye coordination. Slapper Sam stole the show as she unavoidably slipped in the odd expletive along with the occasional wink to Lewis who eventually began to notice her flirtatious behaviour, later, we believe, in the beer garden over the discarded barrels he gave her a good talking to between the legs.

Meanwhile, there had been a splinter group operating covertly in the ‘office’ corner. Their intention was a feeble attempt to undermine the afternoon’s proceedings by pitching up late, after the start time of the game. Salty had summoned the family into this treacherous unity claiming to offer belated support for Lowtie who having banished himself from the Bowlie sought refuge in the Milestone. Perhaps, and incorrectly, expecting others to follow he had fostered a degree of festering bitterness. As a result John, even after a return to the home ground, had given up his captaincy refusing to play. Salty had sniffed out this stand off, gathered up his clan in as a show of phoney solidarity, to purposely thin out the team members. But he had not expected ‘Ex’ Bowling Green regulars to claim the vacant places. His scheme had backfired, this may now result in the Saltettes and Danny Brennan out in the cold with the fresh young blood filling their place. Next week may prove vital if the new members stand fast.

The new toy that Doctor Dave had been twanging, over several hours, didn’t last the distance. Having been caught up in the late, drunken, heated and regular Chris versus Lowtie shouting match he vented his anger upon the pot rail by smashing his £19.00 Ukulele into matchwood. He does make his presence felt in very strange but notable ways. Naturally, the night continued into the early hours with the ‘Doc’ becoming extremely pertinent and relevant, Dave still singing, accompanied by his terminally broken instrument, Chris trying to remember why his argument with John became so heated. But, June had the last word; having been accidentally locked out at 2am walking the dog she eventually gained entry to promptly pour a pint over her husbands head informing him that he was a ‘fucking waste of space’. Everyone gathered their coat and left for home.