Big Leggy
Picture the scene: I was standing with a friend in the queue for the tills in Poundstretcher this morning when a vision in red strode confidently into the store and disappeared down the aisle between the gardening stuff and the knickers. But it wasn't the slim and lithe figure clad in bright red woollen tights, red tartan micro-skirt and matching top and teetering on red platforms that caught my eye, it was the short curly hair atop the tanned and very definitely masculine head. Nobody else seemed to have noticed and if they had, weren't that bothered. I tapped my friend on the shoulder and pointed, open-mouthed.
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah, that was Barry*."
"Aaah. Right. THAT's Barry."
I'd heard mention of Barry before but until this morning had never actually happened across him. There aren't that many nutters in this town**, to be honest, and as I tend to keep myself to myself and don't hang about the few dens of iniquity that are still trading, this kind of thing tends to pass me by. I've only lived here on and off for eight years, plenty of time to pick up the gossip yet. There's a bloke called Disco Pete who's banned from every establishment and social housing building in the area on account of his habit of falling asleep drunk and setting fire to things and otherwise making a nuisance of himself but that's about it as far as I know. There is a genuine Scot who insists on wearing a tatty old kilt come rain or snow (taken to wearing a pair of chinos under it now for some reason) but I don't think talking to yourself while using the microfiche machines in the reference library, which is where he's usually found, counts. We got back in the car, my friend continued:
"Barry comes in The Angel sometimes." The Angel is an establishment I've never frequented. I like a quiet life. I exit the car park.
"He says he's not had sex for years. He also insists that anyone can have his wife for a tenner. He pimps his wife in the pub!"
"Wha..?" I indicate left at the roundabout.
"Yeah. He offered her to me but I told him I wouldn't even touch her for a fiver."
I leave the roundabout at the third exit.
*Not his real name. It's nothing like Barry at all.
**I have heard rumours that about 40 years ago there was a group of hippies who lived in West Avenue and owned a tank. Undoubtedly this is preposterous nonsense of the highest order.
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah, that was Barry*."
"Aaah. Right. THAT's Barry."
I'd heard mention of Barry before but until this morning had never actually happened across him. There aren't that many nutters in this town**, to be honest, and as I tend to keep myself to myself and don't hang about the few dens of iniquity that are still trading, this kind of thing tends to pass me by. I've only lived here on and off for eight years, plenty of time to pick up the gossip yet. There's a bloke called Disco Pete who's banned from every establishment and social housing building in the area on account of his habit of falling asleep drunk and setting fire to things and otherwise making a nuisance of himself but that's about it as far as I know. There is a genuine Scot who insists on wearing a tatty old kilt come rain or snow (taken to wearing a pair of chinos under it now for some reason) but I don't think talking to yourself while using the microfiche machines in the reference library, which is where he's usually found, counts. We got back in the car, my friend continued:
"Barry comes in The Angel sometimes." The Angel is an establishment I've never frequented. I like a quiet life. I exit the car park.
"He says he's not had sex for years. He also insists that anyone can have his wife for a tenner. He pimps his wife in the pub!"
"Wha..?" I indicate left at the roundabout.
"Yeah. He offered her to me but I told him I wouldn't even touch her for a fiver."
I leave the roundabout at the third exit.
*Not his real name. It's nothing like Barry at all.
**I have heard rumours that about 40 years ago there was a group of hippies who lived in West Avenue and owned a tank. Undoubtedly this is preposterous nonsense of the highest order.
posted by Richard at 3:36 pm
8 Vegetable peelings:
It was probably a group of guppies who owned a fish tank. Easy mistake to make.
I cannot comment on gossip that has been passed on to you. When I lived in Crewe there were lots of nutters. I saw some of them, but was told about lots more. Strangely, even though I had been in the exact spot that the nutters were reported, I never encountered them.
You may hear stories about barrels of beer being rolled down stairs in Broad Street, and crashing through the dividing wall into the neighbours living room and other such unlikely events. I would nod sagely and secretly dismiss this nonsense if I were you.
I have only ever lived on the south eastern side of the country (the furthest west was Dunstable, and the furthest north, Boston). Where is Crewe exactly?
Rog, almost certainly.
Vicus, I live just off Ford Lane, Broad St runs parallel. I'm sure there are some people round here who may be able to corroborate this nonsense. Can you remember which end of Broad St, it's very long. Cross Keys or Chetwoode?
Dave, it's in a universe far, far away.
Exeter had a bearded dwarf with a gammy leg and bad dentures who’d recite Kipling if you gave him 50p.
But apart from that, the locals were weird.
The house was at the top end of Broad Street and has now been demolished - a job which we failed to complete.
You may even find the old lady who fell into the cellar in the same house when some people (who I only knew very slightly) opened the grate above it to allow barrels of alcoholic beverage to be rolled in. She would be about 116 now.
That would presumably be the town end, near the Chetwoode pub which was demolished 30 years ago when they widened West Street. I'm guessing had you stayed, the local council could have saved a fortune in contract fees and allowed your colleagues to complete the job unaided. I hear the new government is going to reward this kind of enterprise
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