The Pakistani & The Jockey
I was weak with the hunger there the other day on my bike…
So I peddled into East Dulwich cuz I really felt like a fat juicy fish burger laced in that tangy mayonnaise and some bendy chips with tomato sauce.
I went to a classy joint called “Favorite”.
Here it is:
-for what they call the Fishwich… mmmmm! Pure Grease-Ball Material I know…
In keeping with my food, my hair was dead greasy and my clothes were mouldy.
I looked at the seating while I was at the counter and carefully planned my position of eating. I decided I was going to sit with my back to the window and eat as privately as possible cuz it’s a fish bowl of a place and I’d be scandalised if I was spotted by someone I know!
I was up at the counter anyway, ordering the grub when this whipper-snapper comes in through the door. He struck me as being a jockey in his build, a jockey of the urban kind though, the kind that has never set foot in a field.
So yer man orders grub in a cross between an Irish & an English accent.
The Pakistani behind the counter takes his twenty pound note and started to scrutinize it; holding it up to the light and squinting.
Then he produces his super magic marker and proceeds to scribble over the twenty pound note. The marker doesn’t work, maybe it’s not supposed to, I don’t know but the Pakistani isn’t satisfied with it anyway and decides to operate on the twenty pound note. He starts to rip the top bit where the foil strip is and then the bottom part where the foil strip ends. He is still not satisfied with it’s authenticity and the jockey is getting visibly agitated.
The jockey takes out an almerciful wad of £20 notes from his back pocket and tries to convince the Pakistani that all his twenties are the same. While he does so, I notice he has a rake of tattoos; a swallow and some random illegible words & letters.
The Pakistani takes another few twenties from the Jockey and between the jigs and the reels they lose track of how many £20 notes have changed hands and the Jockey thinks the Pakistani has one too many of his twenties and this is going on as I am handed my fish burger.
I sink my teeth into the soft burger bun, the top of it lovingly clinging to the roof of my mouth, as the Jockey’s blood level rises.
The Pakistani decides that he’s not going to accept the Jockey’s money and hands the original twenty back to him. It’s all ripped and dishevelled and only half of it’s former self.
At this point, the Jockey flips his ABSOLUTE LID!!!
He rises up on his tippy toes & does all these high follutin’ jerky movements & points his finger while shouting all sorts of profanities. He threatens to climb over the counter and give him a few slaps. He tells the Pakistani to remember his face because the next time he sees it he will be chopping him up into tiny pieces. The Pakistani is giving him lip back – Barking away… I’m caught in the crossfire chewing the cud.
The Jockey asked the Pakistani what time he was due to finish. The Pakistani tells him and they agree Shakespearian style to meet and take this issue out into the night.
The Jockey tells him to make the most of his last few hours of life because he won’t see tomorrow.
I finish up my chips and head off home; hoping that I won’t be on Crime Watch the next night with my greasy hair and my terrible eating habits.
The Moving Statue of Ballinspittle
So I am brushing up on my Irish at the Irish Centre at Hammersmith. I always like going to the Irish Centre, they have great goings ons there. I went to see Finbarr Furey there last year; I sat up in the front row in what reminded me of the parish community halls you’d find in rural Ireland.
Anyway, I was waiting in the foyer of the Irish Centre, waiting for my class and having a suppa soup when I looked up on the wall and I saw a painting of what had to be the statue of Holy Mary in Ballinspittle. The reason I say it had to be of Ballinspittle, was because there was an almerciful crowd gathered round her, arms folded all staring up at her expectedly. Among the crown of people was a “Mr Soft Whip” Ice cream van…
When I saw the painting, I said to myself “jeez thas funny now” and I only thinking of the moving statue’s the other day.
What in the name of God came over Ireland in the early eighties that led everyone in the country to believe that the Holy Statues were coming to life? What kind of mental state were we in at all? Ballinspittle didn’t know what hit it, normally a sleepy ol’ village; all of a sudden there were people coming in bus loads, travelling for hundreds of miles to the grotto, they had to pour concrete over the adjacent field to make a car park, the roads were widened to accommodate the traffic, two new jaxes were built, a couple of telephone boxes were put up…
It was mass hallucination at the grotto, everyone standing around, the rosary blasted out of the loud speakers and the crowds joined in, in prayer.
In its peak, prayers burst into hymns, it was like a big concert.
The prayers were interrupted now and then by murmurs such as “She nodded” or “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, there’s a tear rolling down her cheek, la”
People were claiming to have been cured and everything. Some deaf one said that she came home with her hearing intact, I don’t know…
I think it all came to abrupt end anyway, when a few fiends felt it was getting out of control and took the matter into their own hands. In full view of everyone, they climbed up to the statue wielding an axe and hammer, they took a few chunks out of the face of the statue, everyone sort of slowly emerged from the trance after that. The statue was replaced but the people stopped coming.
It’s the kind of thing you think back of and say to yourself: “did that really happen?…”
For proof that it all happened, watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kZjM83wZmWw
I’d love to buy a statue… Can some one buy me one – I want a life size one…
Gimme the God Damn Peppercorns wilya!
I went up to the Turkish shop up the road there the other day. It’s like a proper mini-supermarket for those of you who don’t know it. Look, here is a photo of it for ya altogether:..
Anyway, I went in and scanned the aisles for some peppercorns.
I gave up in the search and decided to ask the fella with the white coat. It’s unlike me to ask, I usually circle round and round til I find what I need and it’s only when I have thoroughly exhausted this search do I approach the men in white coats. Anyway, on this occasion I musta waltzed around the aisles enough to make me dizzy. So I say to yer man “excuse me, do ye have any peppercorns?”
Yer man opens his mouth and goes “ah!” as he strides longleggedly round the corner, I follow him and he leads me to the popcorn.
“Eh, that’s popcorn, I asked for peppercorns?”
“Aaaaaah” he says with more passion this time and strides off out the front door of the shop…
“Where are you taking me now?” I asked him. “I don’t think ye’d be keeping the peppercorns outside”
He leads me to the row of fresh peppers and looks at me as if he has given birth to them or something…
“Eh YEAH… they are peppers… I asked you for peppercorns…”
Now he slows down and kinda gives me a puzzling look.
I soften and explain that I am looking for the other half of the salt&pepper pair, but in it’s whole form, before you do the grindy grindy thing”
“You want salt?”
“No, I want it’s long lost brother – Pepper”
“Oh Ok, yes, we don’t have/that will be delivered on Friday”
“I don’t think it’ll be delivered on Friday, I think you don’t understand me and you’re brushing me under the It-will-be-delivered-on-Friday rug” I said to a misunderstanding face.
So I leave him to his confusion and approach another white coat.
“Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Yes, yes!” he says in broken English, but I make a mental note to give him a chance before I bollick him.
Do you have any peppercorns?…
Fierce high jinx altogether…
Had a nice cycle in to work this morning. I was doing my usual rubber necking. I saw a really old sign that read “G Wallin & Co. Tin Box Makers”
I thought it was really cool and started to think about how jobs have changed over time… I was so lost in thought that I didn’t see the barricade in front of me…
I saw it as I was just about to hit it, so I managed to pull my brakes but I still did some involuntary somersaults & high jinks & circus tricks & my phalanges got crushed too.
I was kinda embarrassed peeling myself off the barricade and I looked up at the windows of all the flats lining the street but no one was looking out…
Kinsale…
I’m going to take a trip back to the ol’ sod…. I’ll hop on one of these things:
While I’m waiting in the airport, I’ll sit at the bar, and have a few pints of the loosening juice and read a few pages of my book
The pints always get me in the mood for going out slapping backs in Kinsale after I touch down… First port of call is the Greyhound, have a sniff around, see who’s about… then I’ll get dragged to the Bulman which is a bit of a trek, but the sister’s a big fan of the place and she’s doing the chauffeuring. So off to the Bulman:
If it’s a blustery night, you’ll always feel it over at the Bulman because it sits at the edge of the harbour. A few more pints to get the beer coat on…and if we’re lucky there might be some of this going on:
It’s close to closing, so away back into town, tuck ourselves safely into a pub before last call.
Then if I’ve enough pints in me, I may be persuaded to go to the local nightclub, God forgive me – terrible kip of a place – the white lady, they still have a slow set there where men come up and ask you to dance to the likes of “Unchained Melody” etc. If you go out for a dance with any of the ol’ codgers, you’ll soon be wrestling with more than you bargained for… This is the white lady:
Away home in a taxi – Mike will be driving, he’s sound. He always remembers me and we have great craic driving him mad on the way home. Next morning, I’ll cook Jerry, my Brother one of my world famous breakfasts. After, he will mark it out of ten. I always get about 9 and a half out of 10. He’ll dock me half a mark for the smallest things…just to be annoying. He loves when I come home cuz he gets quality brekkies…
I might take a walk out the old head of Kinsale to clear away the cobwebs:
If my Brother, Johnny is in from sea, he might give me a tuna like he did the last time:
If not, I’ll head into fishy fishy:
This place is amazing. They have the best food in the world. I might go for something like this:
Might have a pint of Kinsale Lager to keep it company in me belly:
They say that Kinsale lager doesn’t have any chemicals in it, so you can drink it to your hearts content without getting a hangover.
Did you know that a giant lived in Kinsale once? His name was Patrick Cotter O’ Brien and he was born in 1760. His shoe is inside in the museum in Kinsale. I don’t know where his other shoe is. He was eight foot and three inches and was the tallest man in the world at the time. When he was 18, a travelling showman discovered him working as a bricklayer and brought him to England to star in his “freak of nature” show.
There you have it…
Alter ego compulsions…
RE: Your black dog in the pub
He has the begging down to a T, I have seen him use and abuse people for their snacks. As soon as they were finished their snacks he would jilt them like lost lovers. He is a cunning piece of stuff.
He is an attractive dog and I suggest you put notices up so that the public don’t ruin him. He has the body of an athelete. If I was a dog myself, I would most definately take him. He has the best hind legs I’ve ever seen in my life. God bless him.
I look forward to seeing him in peak shape next year
All the best now,
—–
From: ////@thebulman.com –> –> –> –> –>///@thebulman.com –>
Date: Jul 3, 2006 11:19 AM
Subject: Re: Your Black dog in the pub
To: Mick Magee –> –> –> –> –>///@gmail.com–>
Hello Mick,
Thanks for the info. I will let the owner know. The Dog does not belong to the bar but lives behind The Bulman. She is a great manipulator with those sad eyes and cute face, it is hard not to give in to her.
Glad you enjoyed your time here and I hope it will be as good on your return visit.
Regards,
C/// R///
