English Village Life

How To Educate An Idiot

by Enormous on April 7, 2010

My retarded ex-next-door-neighbour has moved back in, much to the annoyance of everyone from number 29 upwards to the school.

He disappeared at the end of the summer last year after he trashed his house one evening during a drunken ‘barbeque’ he was enjoying with a few of his mentally dispossessed ex-army buddies from Newcastle.

I bumped into him in the street yesterday and was surprised that he actually offered me an apology.

‘Sorry about that thing before. You know, burning your fence down and that.’

For some odd reason, I told him it was all right, and to just be careful not to do anything like it again.

He was glad I accepted his apology and even went on to promise further reparations. ‘I’ll come round and fix up that dent in your kitchen wall if you like.’

‘No need. Just try to behave in future. Ha ha.’

I want as little to do with him as possible. (Apart from being so thick that light actually bends around him, he is also very frightening.)

‘I’ve been going to them evening classes, you know.’

‘Evening classes!? You? Erm . . . ahem . . . I mean . . . Oh, really? Basket weaving is it? Flower arranging?’

‘Anger management. I have to go because of me ASBO, like.’

He went on to tell me in minute detail about his various court appearances and convictions. I kept inching away from him and looking demonstrably at my watch but he wouldn’t shut up. I think, rather depressingly for me and Audrey, he is probably just looking for a friend.

‘I’m not your friend,’ I told him. (I didn’t, actually. What I really said was something along the lines of: ‘Anyway, nice weather, isn’t it. I must get going.’)

His account of his various legal adventures of the past few months was so long-winded, tedious and dull that it made me want to go home and self-harm.

After about five long minutes he stunned me by asking, ‘Maybe we could go out one night, me and you, and – ‘

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Maybe an Indian or a McDonald’s?’

‘I don’t eat.’

‘Maybe we could – ‘

‘Oh, look, is that the time? Must dash. Lovely meeting you again. Goodbye. Have fun with yourself.’

‘What about tomorrow? We could – ‘

‘See you later.’

Now I’m more worried than I was before when all I had to be concerned about was his noisy late-night parties and occasional fence-burning.

Why is nothing easy?

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Dancing at the Pig and Whistle

by Enormous on March 1, 2010

I bumped into Reg and Nigel coming out of the Co-op again this morning. They had bags and arms full of bottles of wine and 4-packs of Stella Artois lager. Unlike last time, they appeared to be quite sober.

‘Planning another daytime drinking session, chaps?’ I asked breezily.

‘We’re celebrating,’ Nigel beamed.

‘You were last time if I remember correctly. Something to do with the Pope being Catholic?’

‘He’s not, is he?’ Reg seemed rather taken aback.

‘My wife’s coming back,’ Nigel declared. ‘We’re having a party at the Pig and Whistle to mark the occasion. Everyone is invited. Even you.’

‘I don’t think the landlord will appreciate you bringing loads of your own booze to his pub.’ I warned them.

‘Gay Gene?’ Reg looked genuinely bemused. ‘You know Gay Gene, don’t you, Davy? He’s very accommodating. He lets anyone do anything, usually. As long as it’s all done in his pub and not down the road in the Royal. They ought to shut that place down.’

‘I don’t know him that well, Reg. Unlike you and Nigel, I have never penetrated his intimate circle.’

‘Eight o’clock tonight,’ Nigel interjected. ‘There’ll be karaoke, dancing, lesbians, black pudding sarnies, pickled eggs, and a raffle.’

‘Hmm . . . pickled eggs, you say?’

‘Yep.’

‘I’ll be there.’

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Only The Lonely

by Enormous on February 17, 2010

I took a calculated risk and parked on the double-yellow lines outside Mishri’s Newsagents on the way back from the rehearsal on Sunday.

There were one or two dribbling slack-jawed yokels in the aisles so I went straight to the counter. ‘Can I have a box of that lovely Earl Grey tea you stock, please, Mr Mishri? Twinings, I believe it is.’

‘Oh, no, no no, no, no, Mr Davy, you certainly cannot, my young sir.’

‘You haven’t run out, surely. I think I’m the only one in the village who buys it. Ha ha.’

‘Well that’s just it, you see, Mr Davy, sir. Nobody else likes it.’ I could hear mutterings of concordance coming from the back of the shop near the pork scratchings section.

‘I know. I just told you, I – ‘

‘You haven’t been in to buy any since Christmas, Mr Davy, sir, you see.’

‘That’s because I bought some at Christmas, and now I have run out, so I am . . . Oh, look, it doesn’t matter. Do you have any bottles of Stella in the cooler?’

‘I can’t afford to buy you special tea, Mr Davy, and then not have you come in to make a purchase of this item on a regular basis.’

A fat, planet-sized woman standing behind me was tutting and sweating. She was muttering something under her breath that sounded like, ‘Voodoo, voodoo, magic bingo voodoo,’ which unsettled me slightly – as you can imagine – and inflamed my impatience further.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go to the Co-op.’

As I was leaving, Mr Mishri’s wife popped up from behind the counter and began berating me with a stiff finger and her usual mournful rectitude. ‘Hey, Steve, You should stop dying your hair! Get some smart clothes and find a nice young girl to settle down with.’

Apart from her getting my name wrong again, Mrs Mishri’s trenchant observations and comments did not sound too dissimilar to those often levelled at me by my mother. In fact, they were exactly the same.

‘You always look so lonely, Steve.’

‘Good grief. I only came in to buy some bloody tea.’

‘No need to swear, Steve. And you can’t park there, you know. Did you not see the sign? It’s a big sign, Steve.’

‘It’s a broken sign,’ I informed her in exasperation. ‘It says No -king. I thought you were both staunch republicans.’

She shouted something else but I was already getting into the car. It was probably, ‘Thank you. Please come again.’

When I got home, I glanced at my reflection in the hallway mirror. I was not surprised to see steam hissing from my ears.

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Mum's The Word

by Enormous on July 24, 2009

Nice to know that motherly love is alive and well and living in north Derbyshire.

Overheard by me and Audrey in the park this morning:

‘Shanazy, come here. Come here, Shanazy. Shanazy! Come here! Shanazy! Damn you, you filthy little maggot. Wait till I tell your dad.’

She was a pretty little thing, too – for a filthy little maggot, that is.

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Fake-Tan Baaad-Ass Man

by Enormous on June 1, 2009

I was accosted at the door this morning by a traveling rapper.

‘I is sellin’ fake tans, innit.’

I just couldn’t believe my eyes. An team of ugly white teenagers with bags full of fake tan products were going door-to-door selling their wares.

My one was wearing baggy, white Bench jeans, an NY top and cap, and enough bling to sink a battleship. ‘So is you want some, mate? It’s good stuff. We is sellin’ out fast, man, innit.’

‘Dressed like that, you couldn’t talk me out of a burning car let alone get me to purchase a stolen bottle of radioactive fake tan cream. Now be off with you!’

He seemed genuinely amused ‘Wha!? You is well weird, man, innit.’

‘Hmm.’

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Pole Dancer

by Enormous on May 21, 2009

I had an experience in the Newsagent’s this morning that was far removed from the one Audrey and I had with the Falling Man in he park the other day:

‘I’m before you, lanky.’ This was a big, hard bruiser of an man who looked like he fought bears for a living.

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘You will be if be if you carry on being sarcastic.’ He pointed at the display cabinet behind the counter. ‘Twenty Marlboro and one of them cake things,’ – no ‘please’ or ‘thank you’.

Reaching for the cigarettes, Mr Mishri served his eloquent customer with untypical efficiency. In fact, he seemed quite apprehensive; his double-chins were wobbling away like nobody’s business – and I noticed his hands were shaking as he gave the man his change. ‘Thank you. Please come again.’ He glanced at me and I saw fear in his eyes.

For some reason – probably something very primal – I felt very threatened, too. The man left the shop and Mr Mishri and I both breathed a very audible sigh of relief.

However, to our collective horror, we watched as, instead of disappearing up the street, he did an about turn and came back inside the shop doorway. Before leaving for good this time, he said something to me. This is what it was: ‘Pole Dancer.’

I am not sure what he was getting at exactly but I am fairly certain that his comment was meant in a pejorative sense. It was certainly delivered with menace and accompanied by a vulgar gesture.

Whenever I encounter such stunningly intelligent and polite members of the local community I am always encouraged. It gives me hope for humankind in general, it really does.

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Falling Man

by Enormous on May 18, 2009

English people are so peculiar sometimes.

Audrey and I were walking past a middle-aged man in the park earlier today when he suddenly slipped and fell over. I thought he’d had a stroke.

For a few seconds he simply lay there motionless on the wet grass, like a stunned carp. I didn’t know how to respond. I just stood looking down at him.

Then, as if he had woken from an unintentional nap, he shook his head and jumped to his feet. Dusting himself down, he said: ‘Oh I say! I do apologise, I really do. Lovely weather, isn’t it.’

He marched off in the direction of the council offices in the village, whistling happily to himself as he went. Audrey was looking up at me as if to say: ‘How odd.’

This pleasant fellow, whoever he was, and the welcome sunshine this morning have caused my spirits to lift considerably. So much so, in fact, that I might make myself a Pimm’s and lemonade this afternoon and venture into the garden to check on the broad beans and to fondle a few pansies.

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