Darn the pub

2blokes

On the pulse of an informed democratic electorate

Once again it’s time to join Noah Bode and Harry App in their local, The  Purple Helmet.


Noah: D’you like that, you know, classical music?

Harry: Not likely, mate. Leave it out. Nah, s’not fer me.

Noah: What don’t yer like about it?

Harry: Well – long story short – yer don’t get yer money’s worf.

Noah: How do yer make that out?

Harry: There’s no singin’ in it.

Noah: There’s opera.

Harry: She doesn’t sing you plonker.

Noah: Who?

Harry: Oprah Winfrey. She just sits and talks ter peepull.

Noah: No….o-p-e-r-a, you dingbat.

Harry: Don’t fink so. I fink it’s o-p-r-a-h  smartarse.

Noah: Right. Yeh. Thanks for setting me straight on that.

Harry: Sawright. I go online yer see. Learn a lot that way.

Noah: You do? Like what?

Harry: Wull, olive oil’s better for yer than Castrol.

Noah: Well o’ course it is shit4brains, Castrol’s poisonous, I mean…

Harry: No it in’t. I was watchin’ this Yank bird right and she said the olive oil was better for you and so it can’t be poisonous.

Noah: Just cos she said it?

Harry: No, cos she wan’t dead. Anyway it tastes ‘orrible but it dunt killya. My mum got it free on the National ‘ealth when she were a kid.

Noah: That’s Castor oil you wally.

Harry: Either way, I wouldn’t purrit in me motor.

Noah: Why not?

Harry: Be a waste of good olive oil wunnit? You’re feckin’ weird at times you are.

Noah: Nuvva Becks?

Harry: As it’s your round…

As Noah gets the drinks, wondering for the 793rd time why he has Harry as a friend, Harry picks up a copy of The Times from the bar

Harry: Sez ‘ere this Brexit’s causin’ volla’ivitee, and if we yer know Brexit an’ that, it’s gonna mean ozsteri’ee an’ all.

Noah:Yeh, well…..we’ve had austerity ever since Osborne took over the Treasury.

Harry: Blimey, they’ve privatised that now ‘ave they? Good fing too, they were never right about anyfin an’….

Noah: No….since George Osborne took over at the Treasury.

Harry: Oh. Right.

The two men sip their lagers. Noah spots a girl he knows and raises his bottle with a wink. Worryingly, Harry is thinking.

Harry: D’ye fink that’s why they call it austerity?

Noah: You lost me, ‘arry.

Harry: ‘appens to me all the time. I got one o’ them electric brains….

Noah: That’s eclectic , ‘arry…

Harry: Yurr. An’ I fink about evryfin all the time. That’s why uvva peepull right, seefingizzright, they can’t keep up wiv me.

Noah: It must be hard for you. Why do you think they call it austerity?

Harry: Cos Osborne invented it. Like, maybe e’ll go down on ‘istory as George Osteri’ee.

Noah: I don’t think Osborne invented it, mate. I think he just, yer know, thinks we gotta have it.

Harry: I ‘ear ‘e’s gorran  habit an’ all….

Noah: Yeh, a habit of feckin’ up.

Harry: D’yer fink so? I mean, it’s not all bad izzit? I mean rich people ain’t got it.

Noah: I never thought of it that way.

Harry: I mean, ‘e ‘as ter go on what ‘is peepull tell ‘im, dunnee? They just give ‘im like ballpoint estimates….

Noah: Ballpoint estimates?

Harry: Thasright.

Noah: And he just kind of pencils them in does he?

Harry: Narr yuur gettin’ it. Course, high finance int fer evryone….

Noah: That’s because most of them haven’t got any money.

Harry:…and so most peepull dunt, seefingislike, see why we need ter get rid of regulation…

Noah: You don’t think we need some sort of regulatory model?

Harry: Well that Whittingdale bloke does, e’s got that Miss Whiplash annee, wurhey!

Noah: No ‘arry, I mean some legal rules to keep cheats and crooks in place.

Harry: But we already got one. S’called prison.

Noah: Yes, true, very true. But there aren’t any bankers in there.

Harry: Well o’ course there feckin’ aren’t, Prison Officers don’t get paid enough…I mean why would a rich banker wanna do that job? You do come art wiv…

Noah: No ‘arry, what I mean is, we need to put some bankers inside.

Harry: Ah, I gerrit: so they can privatise it? Good idea. But wunt that be insider tradin’?

Noah: It’s your round ‘arry.

Harry: Same again?

Noah: Please.


There will be more bulletins from The Purple Helmet in due course. In the meantime….

Earlier at The Slog: Why Middle England is in pole position

8 thoughts on “Darn the pub

  1. Excellent stuff John. Shades of Keith Waterhouse’s ‘Sharon and Tracey’ from years ago … but better. Now I’m showing my age :-)

    Like

  2. As the bartender looks on idly (or idly on) and thinks; “what bloody wankers” “never seen anyone get stupid over one pint”

    Like

  3. FRED ON EVERYTHING.

    America Goes Away: Fred Left Behind in Mexico
    Posted on May 12, 2016 by Fred Reed
    Mail arrives in my inbox all the time, telling me that by going to Mexico I have sold out, fled, abandoned the United States. I’m a coward and a traitor, just like Lord Haw Haw, and Kim Philby, and probably hate America more than Barack Obama does.

    It is is irrational. They think that just because I went to Mexico, I left the US. They don’t understand. I didn’t leave the United States. It left me. It was a bait-and-switch operation. I signed on to one country, and they slipped another in under me. I want my money back.

    In the country where I grew up, if you woke up and found a naked intruder headed for daughter’s bedroom with a Bowie knife and a hard-on, you shot him and arranged to have the rugs cleaned. The sheriff wasn’t greatly interested and the county prosecutor didn’t see anything to prosecute. The scum floating on the gene pool wasn’t a protected species. It wasn’t the driving engine of the culture. It was just scum.

    Today you would be charged with the use of excessive force. The cadaver’s family would sue. They would end up with your house unless they just ran you broke with legal bills. The outcome would depend on the racial make-up of you, the intruder, and the jury. Your daughter would be married with grandchildren before the courts reached any conclusion.

    Think I’m exaggerating? When I used to have the police beat for the Washington Times in the Yankee capital, the cops told me, dead serious, that if I ever shot an intruder, I should shoot him again to make sure: You can’t afford to have two stories, they said, especially if he’s black which, in Washington, was pretty much a foregone conclusion. They’ll hang you, said the cops.

    In the country I grew up in, you got on an airplane by walking up these funny little steps with wheels on them. Then you sat down. That’s all you did. I know, I know: You don’t believe this. It’s true. You just walked on. Further, the stewardesses were not merely civil but — so help me — friendly and pretty. Flying was actually enjoyable. The seats were big enough that you didn’t sit with your knees beside your ears and your feet in your pockets.

    Today, getting aboard is like going into max security at some ghastly penitentiary. I once flew a bit around the old Soviet Union, as distinct from our new one, on a junket. Security was less oppressive, though the food was marginally worse unless you liked green chicken. The service was just as peremptory.

    Maybe that’s what I miss most about the Old Country. People were courteous. They could afford to be because everyone else was too. It’s hard to be pleasant when the odds are even that the next official you deal with will be an ill-mannered lout who knows he can get away with it.

    I think people were courteous also because they lived in an agreeable country and were pretty happy with things. The new country seems angry — quietly so, not sure what to do about it, but looking for someone to hit.

    Yet further still, in the Old Country they didn’t have these funny little Japanese cars with itsy-bitsy four-bangers. Nope. They had great virile monsters thirty feet long with eight huge cylinders like buckets. A dog could have slept in them. Sure, those rocket-barges were probably ridiculous and left a trail of parts that fell off because quality control wasn’t that great, but they were real cars. They embodied a spirit I liked. Today cars seem to be designed with hair-dressers in mind.

    The Old Country music was vibrant, vigorous, much of it springing from the great black bluesmen of Mississippi and then Chicago, some of it from the mountains and from the jazz dens of the big cities. In the music of the new country, the whites whine and the blacks grunt angrily and the lyrics seem to have been written by a retarded computer. From Tampa Red to Eminem is a long way down.

    In the country I signed on to, things worked on the principle of individual responsibility. If you robbed a bank, which people generally didn’t, everyone figured you did it because you decided to, and you went to jail and everyone was satisfied, except you, which was the idea. Most people knew how to behave, and did. It saved a lot on police departments and you could walk around at night.

    In the new country of course everything is somebody else’s fault, unless you are a white male, in which case everything is your fault. Never mind that if it weren’t for white males everybody else would be living on low-hanging fruit and saying “ugga-wugga” because they couldn’t figure out how to make a big-block hemi to crash into things with. Or figure out how to make anything else.

    In the Old Country, the government was pretty much benign or actually useful. It built roads and largely left you alone. The public schools were not great but neither were they terrible. People ran their own lives. The federal government tended to be somewhere else, which was a splendid place for it, and you mostly didn’t notice.

    In the country that is now where America used to be, the government is the cause of most major problems instead of a solution, however inefficient, to a fair number of them. The government keeps you from educating your children, holds standards down, prevents you from hiring the best people you can find to work in your business. It won’t allow local jurisdictions to control crime, prevents localities from enforcing such moral standards as they see fit, virtually illegalizes the religion of most of the population, and generally won’t permit people to live as they like.

    Now, I used to be fond of the United States. Granted, I wasn’t much of a patriot. The word nowadays seems to mean one who doesn’t so much love his country as to dislike other people’s. I figured live and let live. A lot of other countries struck me as fine places. But America was my favorite. It just suited me. I liked the people in their wild variety and the countryside and the music and the brash independence. It wasn’t perfect. Still, given the sorry baseline for comportment in human agglomerations, it was about as good as you could get.

    I’m still fond of the United States. I just can’t find it.

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    Posted in Uncategorized
    Questions for Black Lives Matter:The Case for Separation
    Posted on May 5, 2016 by Fred Reed
    I reading the ← Older posts

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Shane Warne would be hard pressed to create the sort of rotation Tony Benn must be undergoing at this moment. How could he have produced such a warmongering banker shill as a son?

    “When I saw how the European Union was developing, it was very obvious that what they had in mind was not democratic. I mean, in Britain you vote for the government and therefore the government has to listen to you, and if you don’t like it you can change it. But in Europe all the key positions are appointed, not elected – the Commission, for example. All appointed, not one of them elected.

    [..] And my view about the European Union has always been not that I am hostile to foreigners, but that I am in favour of democracy. And I think out of this story we have to find an answer, because I certainly don’t want to live in hostility to the European Union but I think they are building an empire there and they want us to be a part of that empire, and I don’t want that.”

    Tony Benn to the Oxford Union

    Liked by 2 people

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