I was in the Butcher’s shop across the road yesterday morning. Unusually for a Wednesday there were quite a few people there. I stood behind five others and waited.
Julian’s is more than just a Butcher’s shop. It is a social centre too. The postman stops off during his round and makes himself a cup of tea. The milkman does the same thing as do several local tradesmen and I often meet my neighbours in there.
The reason that a queue had formed was that Julian was engaged in banter with them all. Paul, one of his regular customers whom I see quite often was there and so was Steve, who runs a café on The Green. Paul is always telling Julian and the other customers, stories, anecdotes and jokes.
“This is a good one,” Paul said. He looked over his shoulder to see who else was in the shop. I knew what was coming. He was looking to see if there were any women there and so that meant that what followed would be a dirty story or a rude joke.
Seeing that the coast was clear, Paul began:
A man went into a bar. “A pint of lager please.”
“Certainly sir,” said the barman. “ What sort?”
“It doesn’t matter what sort,” said the man. “Anything as long as it isn’t Stella. I had ten pints of Stella last night. I passed out and when I woke up I was fucking broke.”
“They're all about the same price sir,” said the barman. Stella costs the same as Carlsberg and Heineken.”
“No. You don’t understand,” said the man.
”Broke’s the name of my dog!”
I thought that was pretty funny and so did everyone else. Just then my phone rang and I stepped outside to answer it. It was Caroline who was working in Camden. She asked me to e-mail her a document from her laptop which she had left at home. She said it was urgent and so I crossed the road, went back home and sent the e-mail.
Fifteen minutes later I went back to Julian’s. This time only Steve was there.
“Listen to this, Tel” he said. “This is a good one.”
“Is it one of Paul’s?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
A man went into a bar. “A pint of lager please.”
“Steve,” I said. “I think I’ve heard this.” He ignored me.
“Certainly sir,” said the barman. “ What sort?”
“It doesn’t matter what sort,” said the man. “Anything as long as it isn’t Stella. I had ten pints of Stella last night. I passed out and when I woke up I was fucking broke.”
“They're all about the same price sir,” said the barman. Stella costs the same as Carlsberg and Heineken.”
“No. You don’t understand,” said the man.
”Stella’s the name of my dog!”
I laughed politely. “Yes. Good one Steve.”
You will find my last regular posting on March 27th here: At the End of The day
