Charles enters the Village Pub.

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He stomps up to the bar and mutters a greeting. This is unusual. Charles is an invariably polite and sunny chap, possibly the most well-spoken haulage contractor in Norfolk. He orders a pint of Stella abruptly.

“Are you OK, Charles?” asks Short Tony.

“I’ve had a shit day,” he replies. “Been up since five… problems… had to go here… had to go there…” We listen politely as he gets it off his chest. He is genuinely pissed off. There is tension in the air.

“Have you got a ciggie?” he demands. Nobody has. He wanders around the pub attempting to find a cigarette. There is no luck; he swears a bit.

“I’ll nip out the back,” offers the Chipper Barman. “Chef will do you a roll-up.” The Village Pub has a flexible menu. He soon reappears with a roll-up, which Charles disappears outside to consume after a cursory thank-you.

Minutes later he reappears at the door. His face expresses a cocktail of both thunder and incomprehension, as if he were Duncan Ferguson being beckoned off before half-time by his manager, only to discover that he was being substituted for a very small left-side specialist penguin.

He strides back up to the bar and downs his pint.

“There’s a smell of… burning hair?” I ask, obliviously. At this point I have no idea that his roll-up had contained not tobacco, but the heads from a dozen live matches, neatly and diligently snipped off by an under-employed kitchen hand with a sense of humour. He stares at me, steaming slightly.

Charles leaves the Village Pub.

“Now would anybody like some potted head?”

Posted on by JonnyB

Len the Fish passes round the plate.

“Potted head, anyone? It’s just the head boiled up then formed into cubes.” I take a piece and smother it in mustard. It is very nice; in fact it is the best potted head that I have ever tasted. The remainder of pig rests glumly on the table whilst the audience looks on.

Len the Fish has been booked to address the W.I. next year, a prospect that, as a reasonable man, fills him with terror. The LTLP accordingly offered to allow him to practice his butchery demonstration in our kitchen to a crowd of assorted friends, who are less likely to cut up rough than the Institutionettes, who can be notoriously fierce – especially when there are knives.

“The Toddler would like this,” I offer, munching on my head.

Eddie fires up the great cogs and pistons of the sausage machine as Len the Fish starts making incisions. Meanwhile Short Tony is told to start skinning in order to produce some crackling for a starter. A hundredweight of potatoes go into a stockpot ready for boiling.

Three hours later we are all tucking into the most home-made meal of bangers and mash that you can possibly think of. There are rolled joints, and a bag of sausages for everybody to take home.

At this point I realise in alarm that we have turned into the smug people at the end of cookery programmes where they all sit down at the table and make complimentary remarks to the chef for the benefit of the camera. It is a horrifying thought. Fortunately the mash is a bit soggy, so I can say so and break the illusion.

There are two pieces of head left. I offer them round; there are no takers, so I bung them in the fridge. Having finished a crate of Broadside we decide to go to the Village Pub. I would stay for the LTLP’s tidying-up demonstration, but there is nothing worse than people looking over your shoulder when you work.

Abdul & Mohammed: an update.

Posted on by JonnyB

A few months back I wrote a short piece about non-stereotypical Iraqi Arabs Abdul and Mohammed, who were trying to work out how not to get murdered.

Their problem was that because they’d helped out British soldiers in trying to make their country a bit less murdery, they were sort of in for it when it transpired that the Allied demurderfication process was proceeding slower than expected. Iraq’s a bit like that. I mean, you might think that your neighbour gets a bit huffy when the leylandii sneaks above twenty feet, but that’s honestly nothing compared to how cross the militia get if they think you’ve done a bit of translating for a platoon commander from Lincolnshire when he steps up to the front door of somebody who he believes is involved in potential carnage.

Blogger Dan Hardie has spoken to a couple of these people on the telephone. Not Abdul or Mohammed (they don’t really exist, and besides, Abdul is on O2 and the reception is terrible in Basra). No – real, live, genuine people in Iraq!!! They DO exist, and they can use telephones and drive cars and stuff!!! This was a bit of a revelation to me and would be all wondrous if it wasn’t so depressing.

I’ll let Dan take it from here.

“Well did he have them at that point?”

Posted on by JonnyB

I stare at Mrs Short Tony in some confusion.

The previous night is surrounded in some haze. I know that there was a raffle up at the Village Pub, and a very nice girl singer, and some beer. But as far as I am concerned it was a sensible and early night.

“Yes,” I affirm with some resolve. “He definitely had them when I left him.”

I would have noticed if he hadn’t, I decide. Plus it was a night of an arctic nature, and there was the odd passing car that would have hooted or something. Mrs Short Tony shakes her head very slowly from side to side.

“Short Tony has lost his trousers,” explains the LTLP to the Toddler, who is wondering what is going on. The Toddler gives everyone a Basil Exposition type look and goes back to her plotting.

“He had them on when we reached our drive,” I recall. “He must have lost them between the bus stop and your house. That’s  -” I do a quick mental calculation – “one hundred yards?”

“I’ll go and look for them again.”

“Check the bus shelter,” I offer. “And what about the chicken coop?”

Mrs Short Tony disappears to check the bus shelter and the chicken coop. I think about writing a notice to stick up in the Village Pub, but I would not wish to expose Short Tony to ridicule.

“Are you sure he had them on when you left him?” interrogates the LTLP.

“Yes,” I reply, less sure than I was before.