“Why don’t you move that table?”

“What table?”

“That table.”

We are sat round in a big circle in the Non-Village Pub. Such a big circle that we have outgrown our table.

“Move that second table into the middle,” she says.

I look at the second table. It seems comfortable where it is. I give it a little tug. It moves slightly, revealing that it is not fixed in position, but it makes a big scraping sound on the floor that everyone can see. The Bar Lady looks over, sternly.

I do not want to move the table. If I move the table, a man will probably appear and shout at me. I have spent my whole life worrying about doing things in case a man appears and shouts at me, and at my age it is too late to change this approach.

“No go on, just move it in to the middle.”

They are all at it now. Trying to make me move the table. It is peer pressure. I flinch slightly under its power. I know that peer pressure is a terrible thing. One minute you are politely declining to do something, the next minute you are Zammo Maguire.

I move the table another grillionth of an inch. It makes another scraping noise, this time of immense decibality. Upstairs in his office, I can see the man putting down his pen and sighing and saying ‘somebody is trying to move that table again, I will go down and shout at them’.

“Give us a hand,” I say to nobody in general, desperately trying to share the responsibility for the moved table for when it gets to court.

But everybody suddenly looks at their feet and doesn’t meet my eye. A couple pretend not to hear.
Nobody else wants to move the table either.

“Do we really need to move the table?” somebody asks.

There is a chorus of ‘no, no, we do not really need to move the table at all’s.

This is England in a nutshell. Whilst we would like people to bend the rules on our behalf, in fact when it comes down to it we all have respect for the rule of law and order in our society. If I had moved the table they would all have been quite admiring of my ability to flout convention and move a table that clearly was not meant to be moved, but they would also have been a tiny bit contemptuous and talked about it afterwards. Hypocritically, this would have been after they had accepted the benefit of the moved table in terms of putting their drinks on it.

I smiled inwardly at their blatant two-facedness that might have happened.

None of us are perfect, you see. But we can aspire.

POST 8 – FINAL UPDATE

Back in June, readers may remember that I started a massive nation-wide campaign to save the Village Post Office from closure.

Thank you all, for your support.

I was worried that somebody would come along and close it, but nobody has, so I think the time is right to wind down the activity. Plus frankly I’m sick to the back teeth with hearing the song. They can bulldoze the place into dust for all I care.

From a small little protest to stop something from happening that might or might not have happened in the future, the impact of the campaign spread far and wide. People told their friends and colleagues. Created logos. Wrote things in newspapers. Mowed things into their gardens. This is the New Journalism that is making people like R Murdoch, L Beaverbrook etc. so worried.

But now the campaign passes into history.

Last month I received an email enquiry from the Centre for Political Song at Glasgow Caledonian University. This facility ‘exists to promote and foster an awareness of all forms of political song.’

To be honest, I thought they were taking the mick, so I was a bit defensive to begin with. But it turns out that they weren’t, and now ‘Save the Post Office’ is wending its way into their collection, to join Bob Dylan, Woody Guthrie and people.

It seems an appropriate resting place.

They also have the free Nelson Mandela song by Special AKA in their archive and that all worked out OK apart from all that unpleasantness with his wife, so I am hopeful that that is a positive sign for the Village Post Office.

Will it close? Will it stay open? I suspect the answer to that is blowing in the wind.

So for the last time:

Watch the video
Listen to the song

Enjoy your weekends, whatever you’re doing.

I telephone my friend Salvadore Vincent.

“Ring ring! Ring ring!”

NB that was not me talking, that was a special effect of the phone ringing.

Salvadore Vincent is my best friend (apart from of course the hundreds of you that read this, and Short Tony and Big A, and Unluckyman who is in South America so probably won’t see this anyway and so has gone down the pecking order a bit) and has guested on here before. We don’t see each other much these days as he lives off the beaten track in North West London.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Hullo,” I reply.

The pleasantries out of the way, I ask him my special favour. I lean against a wall in Fakenham town centre, holding my portable telephone like the Important Executive I am. But I need his help.

“Is your PC switched on? Could you go on to the Internet and find one of those lists of wedding anniversaries? You know – paper, cotton, that sort of thing?”

Salvadore starts tappity tapping away at the keyboard in the background.

“It’s just that I’m near some shops, which is unusual, and I don’t know what sort of thing to buy.”

Seconds later, the magic of the internet has delivered the information that I need. “I’ve got one!!!” he exclaims in excitement.

“That’s wonderful. So what sort of thing do I need to buy?”

“Which anniversary is it?”

“This is my second question. I was wondering if you can tell me in what year I got married.”

(A short pause).

“I’m not sure I can, no.”

I sigh into the phone. He is not being helpful after all.

In truth, I am a bit piqued. I spent loads on that wedding, and invited him, and there was a free bar and everything, and a really good band. But it seems that my special day meant so little to him that he can’t even remember when it was.

We chat about other things for a couple of minutes. But my heart is not in it.

It is sad when your friends let you down.

Continued from Saturday

I open the window fully and look down into the front garden.

“Do you fancy a game of darts?” asks Short Tony in a little drunk voice, peering up at me in the darkness. Behind him, Big A sways around in a sheepish fashion.

I boggle at them.

“No, I don’t want a game of fucking darts,” I explain.

“Go on, go on, go on. Come and have a game of darts.”

I reiterate my opposition, close the window and pull the curtains firmly. But no sooner have I surrendered myself to the duvet’s Kirstiesque embrace than more gravel clatters against the pane.

“Do you fancy a game of darts?” asks Short Tony. I throw pint mug of water out of the window, and my neighbours leap out of the way. Once more I slam the window and return to bed.

This happens again. We settle into a routine. There is a stand off, before he appears to retreat.

Peace descends upon the village as the early hours approach.

“Psssst!!! Do you fancy a game of darts???”

Disorientated, it takes me a minute to identify the source of noise. “Do you fancy a game of darts???”.

I leap out of bed and stride towards the voice. Short Tony’s face is pressed against the window of the spare bedroom and he is scrabbling at the open window. Seeing as this is on the first floor, this is an unexpected turn of events.

“Will you get off my fucking roof?” I shout at him.

“Yes, but do you fancy a game of darts?”

I reach for the nearest poky thing to hand, which happens to be a microphone stand, and jab at him out of the window, trying to make him go away. But he grabs my weapon and throws it down onto the shingle below. I then snatch some used pants from the washing basket below the window, and hurl them at him, but even this does not divert him from his manic purpose.

“Just get off the roof, or I will shoot you.”

“Go on. Have a game of darts!”

“I’ll shoot you. I will shoot you.”

“Come and play darts!!!”

I pull the window shut and charge downstairs for my gun.

At this stage I should point out that, contrary to some popular perception, we in Norfolk are not all trigger-happy maniacs looking to shoot people at the first opportunity. In fact shooting someone would be almost a last resort, before calling the police, as we are generally peaceful folk. But in my situation, with a hopelessly drunk next-door neighbour on my roof insisting that I play darts with him, I feel that no jury in the land would convict.

Plus I leave it unloaded.

I stomp back upstairs, by now extremely cross. I had virtuously left the pub early for an early night, and here I am, messing around in the dead of night in my pants, Short Tony camping on my roof, insisting that I play darts.

Something leaps on me.

“Arrrghhhhhhhh!!!” it shouts.

“Hfffftttttttppppp!!!” I reply in terror.

Short Tony stands before me. In my bedroom. He has broken into my bedroom in order to ask me to play darts. I look up at him – a first – from two stairs down, alternately flabbergasted and defeated.

“Are you sure you don’t want to play darts?” he asks.

Continued from Saturday

I open the window fully and look down into the front garden.

“Do you fancy a game of darts?” asks Short Tony in a little drunk voice, peering up at me in the darkness. Behind him, Big A sways around in a sheepish fashion.

I boggle at them.

“No, I don’t want a game of fucking darts,” I explain.

“Go on, go on, go on. Come and have a game of darts.”

I reiterate my opposition, close the window and pull the curtains firmly. But no sooner have I surrendered myself to the duvet’s Kirstiesque embrace than more gravel clatters against the pane.

“Do you fancy a game of darts?” asks Short Tony. I throw pint mug of water out of the window, and my neighbours leap out of the way. Once more I slam the window and return to bed.

This happens again. We settle into a routine. There is a stand off, before he appears to retreat.

Peace descends upon the village as the early hours approach.

“Psssst!!! Do you fancy a game of darts???”

Disorientated, it takes me a minute to identify the source of noise. “Do you fancy a game of darts???”.

I leap out of bed and stride towards the voice. Short Tony’s face is pressed against the window of the spare bedroom and he is scrabbling at the open window. Seeing as this is on the first floor, this is an unexpected turn of events.

“Will you get off my fucking roof?” I shout at him.

“Yes, but do you fancy a game of darts?”

I reach for the nearest poky thing to hand, which happens to be a microphone stand, and jab at him out of the window, trying to make him go away. But he grabs my weapon and throws it down onto the shingle below. I then snatch some used pants from the washing basket below the window, and hurl them at him, but even this does not divert him from his manic purpose.

“Just get off the roof, or I will shoot you.”

“Go on. Have a game of darts!”

“I’ll shoot you. I will shoot you.”

“Come and play darts!!!”

I pull the window shut and charge downstairs for my gun.

At this stage I should point out that, contrary to some popular perception, we in Norfolk are not all trigger-happy maniacs looking to shoot people at the first opportunity. In fact shooting someone would be almost a last resort, before calling the police, as we are generally peaceful folk. But in my situation, with a hopelessly drunk next-door neighbour on my roof insisting that I play darts with him, I feel that no jury in the land would convict.

Plus I leave it unloaded.

I stomp back upstairs, by now extremely cross. I had virtuously left the pub early for an early night, and here I am, messing around in the dead of night in my pants, Short Tony camping on my roof, insisting that I play darts.

Something leaps on me.

“Arrrghhhhhhhh!!!” it shouts.

“Hfffftttttttppppp!!!” I reply in terror.

Short Tony stands before me. In my bedroom. He has broken into my bedroom in order to ask me to play darts. I look up at him – a first – from two stairs down, alternately flabbergasted and defeated.

“Are you sure you don’t want to play darts?” he asks.

This would normally be an Exciting Event. However, as it wakes me up I immediately start off with negative perceptions of the tapper.

I look at the alarm clock. It is around a quarter past midnight. The LTLP is away, so it is just me, Honey Bear and Mr Mitt in bed. There is another tap – this time more of a tappity-tap. Some form of night creature is tappity-tapping on my window. I bid it to disappear, using the power of my mind.

A different noise. Some gravel against the window. I know it is gravel, because one side of the window is not actually closed. Somebody is throwing gravel through my bedroom window. This is antisocial behaviour if I have ever seen it. The power of my mind is clearly not adequate, so I shout ‘fuck off!’ in a loud and cross voice.

I cast my mind back over the evening to establish clues as to the mystery gravel thrower.

I had actually left the Village Pub early that evening. Partly because I didn’t want any more to drink, partly because I’d been in there since five pm, but mainly because I had found myself on the brink of agreeing to buy an eighteen-thousand-pound boat from Len the Fish.

It had seemed like such a good idea, as I would then have a boat whereas beforehand I did not have a boat, but the thorny issue of eighteen thousand pounds and formulating some form of plausible explanation to tell the LTLP had tipped the balance in favour of purchase being a Bad Idea.

There is a particular technique to leaving the Village Pub early. It involves finishing one’s beer, placing the glass on the bar, saying very simply ‘right, I’m going now’, and walking out of the door. If you do not do this then people try to convince you to stay, buy you more drink etc., and you are forced to remain.

Big A is a master at this, but I do not do it often. He and Short Tony had looked at me incredulously as I spoke. “What do you mean?” one of them had said, but I was already out the door as they spoke, striding down the puddled path and turning down the hill towards the cottage.

I’d been tremendously pleased with my mature leaving-the-pub-before-closing-time attitude. Yet here I lie, wide awake now, listening to increasing quantities of gravel being hurled against the glass and curtains.

In some pique, I walk across to the window in my pants.

Continued on Tuesday.

There is a tap on the window!!!

This would normally be an Exciting Event. However, as it wakes me up I immediately start off with negative perceptions of the tapper.

I look at the alarm clock. It is around a quarter past midnight. The LTLP is away, so it is just me, Honey Bear and Mr Mitt in bed. There is another tap – this time more of a tappity-tap. Some form of night creature is tappity-tapping on my window. I bid it to disappear, using the power of my mind.

A different noise. Some gravel against the window. I know it is gravel, because one side of the window is not actually closed. Somebody is throwing gravel through my bedroom window. This is antisocial behaviour if I have ever seen it. The power of my mind is clearly not adequate, so I shout ‘fuck off!’ in a loud and cross voice.

I cast my mind back over the evening to establish clues as to the mystery gravel thrower.

I had actually left the Village Pub early that evening. Partly because I didn’t want any more to drink, partly because I’d been in there since five pm, but mainly because I had found myself on the brink of agreeing to buy an eighteen-thousand-pound boat from Len the Fish.

It had seemed like such a good idea, as I would then have a boat whereas beforehand I did not have a boat, but the thorny issue of eighteen thousand pounds and formulating some form of plausible explanation to tell the LTLP had tipped the balance in favour of purchase being a Bad Idea.

There is a particular technique to leaving the Village Pub early. It involves finishing one’s beer, placing the glass on the bar, saying very simply ‘right, I’m going now’, and walking out of the door. If you do not do this then people try to convince you to stay, buy you more drink etc., and you are forced to remain.

Big A is a master at this, but I do not do it often. He and Short Tony had looked at me incredulously as I spoke. “What do you mean?” one of them had said, but I was already out the door as they spoke, striding down the puddled path and turning down the hill towards the cottage.

I’d been tremendously pleased with my mature leaving-the-pub-before-closing-time attitude. Yet here I lie, wide awake now, listening to increasing quantities of gravel being hurled against the glass and curtains.

In some pique, I walk across to the window in my pants.

Continued on Tuesday.