Oisin
gone but not forgotten
Like Crime & Correction, here's another little something, making a heavy social comment...
BOWLS AND THE BLONDE
The Oxhill Comrades Institute had come a long way since it was first conceived and built by a group of working men as a venue to meet and discuss common interests. From those early, innocent beginnings it had evolved into a front for money laundering. Far from being workers, most of the present clientele were on state benefits – pensions of one sort or another, or ‘Job Seekers Allowance’. The recipients of the latter appeared to qualify on the grounds that they were prepared to take any job that didn’t interfere with their drinking habits.
The laundering worked like this: all these illegally extorted benefits would go into the till of the Oxy (as it was known colloquially) and would then be paid into legitimate bank accounts. This scam was common knowledge to everyone in the district. And, I suspect, was probably no secret to the authorities. I would speculate that an institutionalised blind eye was being turned, as it was a way, through V.A.T. and duty, of retrieving most of the revenue dolled out in benefits to the undeserving. It made sense, for had the equivalent monies been squandered on children’s clothing and food, it would have to be written off as a loss. Being invested wisely in booze and fags meant it wasn’t really being spent – just recycled.
There was one great attraction for me at the Oxy - the beer – it was cheap. It wasn’t particularly palatable but it was exceptionally cheap!
Being anti-social, I had specifically chosen that evening to visit the Oxy because it was mid-week, the day before ‘Gyro Day’, and there was no bingo planned. Therefore, I knew customers would be pretty thin on the ground. Just to make certain, I entered the bar before ‘East Enders’ was screened (no one ever came out ‘til they’d drooled over Pauline in that cardie). As I made my way across the shadowy, stale smoke scented room I could feel the grip of the tacky carpet as it stuck to the soles of my shoes. I ordered and collected a pint of John Smith’s to carry over to a seat against the far wall, facing the television. The glimmer of the evening sun seeping through the brown nicotine stained blinds and reflecting off the T.V. screen, all but rendering it impossible to watch. So, to stave off the tedium, I sat alone tearing beer mats into strips. Then the bowls team made an unexpected entrance by slinking in by the door to my rear. Having suffered another humiliating home defeat, this time at the hands of The Upper Gornal Arthritics Association, the general demeanour of the players was far from good.
The average age of the home side must have been somewhere around seventy-two and three-quarters. Belonging to a generation that had witnessed victories over the Germans in 1945 and 1966, they did not take defeat lightly. (Some of the less lucid amongst the gathering, failing to recognise the Upper Gornal accent as Black Country, actually believed they had been playing a German team.) The shortage of bar staff only added to their frustration. Mick, the steward was doing his best but it wasn’t good enough. There had already been unkind exchanges between various members of the team with accusations of incompetence, impotence, insolence, senility, lack of commitment and treachery being some of the less insulting. I looked on and watched the situation deteriorate as a three-minute wait for service began to test the patience of even the most tolerant team member.
I know I should have intervened when the nudging and jostling degraded into ramming each other’s legs with their ball bags. If I could have made out anything recognisable on the T.V., I would have made an effort. But the loss of more civilised entertainment made these bowling boys too good an act to miss. Now I’m no gentleman when it comes to a row but some of the crafty backbiting I was witnessing, in my objective opinion, was well below the belt.
The only respite in this ungentlemanly behaviour came when a [not so] young blonde female unexpectedly appeared through the doors, which led to the Family Room. Immediately a hush fell on the gathering. The old campaigners sat silently in their seats like school children when a teacher enters the classroom. There they sat, beer glasses held in front of their wrinkled faces, craftily gawking at the young woman over pints of Banks’ Mild.
The woman, whom I knew as a regular in the family room, apparently liked to keep well away from the rough-arsed clientele of the bar. I had once been shown an article from as women’s magazine, which had featured her being interviewed about her career as a model. As the article seemed to skirt around any detail of exactly what sort of modelling she was involved in, the way she almost wore her clothes fuelled speculation. Other speculation had centred on whether or not there had been any silicone enhancement of her oversized breasts. To be fair to the lady, she did appear to do her best on a regular basis, to help viewers make an informed decision by exposing as much of them as she possibly could without risking arrest or pneumonia.
The dress she was wearing this particular evening was no exception. Not being an expert on clothing, the best comparison I can make is to an apron: It had no back above the waistline and what there was of the bulging front was held in place by a couple of frail bootlace straps. And it didn’t take much of a calculation to work out that it was a far shorter distance from the hemline to her bleached blonde head than it was to her white stiletto heeled sandals. In fact, there wasn’t enough fabric in it to wrap a decent portion of fish and chips.
As she had appeared carrying a tray of assorted empty glasses for refilling, I can only assume that she had been hidden away with friends when I had arrived. It must have been the delay in service, caused by the antics of the antiquated athletes that had lured her into the bar, where she stood pushing her ample upholstery against the counter, while she exchanged pleasantries with the steward.
The drinks were served and everything was as it should be until she delved into the depths of her purse in search of payment. Whether it was the realisation that she had an audience or what, I have no idea but for some reason her fingers suddenly became all thumbs and the fumbling sent the purse tumbling, spilling the cash it contained all over the carpet.
There was an immediate clanking of glasses on tables and a rustling of shuffling of arses on seats. The blonde had not got as far as bending over fully to retrieve the spilt spondula than the bowling boys were on the job. More like woods after a jack than Tomahawks from a silo, they were crawling all over the carpet catching some of the currency before it had even finished rolling. There was snorting, snarling, growling, gasping, grappling, grizzling, dribbling and drivelling, as the primed pensioners wriggled, wrangled and wrestled over each other to recover whatever they could.
Now this heaving hump of humanity was made up of good, honest, honourable men. It was not for their own selfish gains that they had risked life and limb and humiliated themselves. No, it was to assist a damsel in distress. One by one, as they slowly dragged themselves painfully into the vertical, they formed into an orderly queue to hand over their individual findings to the blonde (although I did notice one or two of the less able amongst them having to pause for breath just as they reached about knee-level on the young lady’s legs).
The blonde rewarded each of her gallant heroes with a grateful smile as she accepted their individual offerings. Then, when the exercise was completed, she turned towards the steward. He immediately spotted her bewilderment. ‘Still some short?’ he asked in a concerned tone.
‘No,’ she shook her head and frowned, ‘But look at this.’ She emptied the contents of her hands onto the bar for him to count.
He quickly thumbed through the scattering of notes and coins. ‘Twenty-six pounds, sixty-three,’ he declared. And then as an afterthought added, ‘Oh and a set of dentures.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I made it.’ The blonde shook her head again.
‘So?’ he asked.
‘I only came out with a twenty quid. I’ve already bought a drink,’ she mused, ‘and I’m pretty sure the false teeth aren’t mine!’
THE END
BOWLS AND THE BLONDE
The Oxhill Comrades Institute had come a long way since it was first conceived and built by a group of working men as a venue to meet and discuss common interests. From those early, innocent beginnings it had evolved into a front for money laundering. Far from being workers, most of the present clientele were on state benefits – pensions of one sort or another, or ‘Job Seekers Allowance’. The recipients of the latter appeared to qualify on the grounds that they were prepared to take any job that didn’t interfere with their drinking habits.
The laundering worked like this: all these illegally extorted benefits would go into the till of the Oxy (as it was known colloquially) and would then be paid into legitimate bank accounts. This scam was common knowledge to everyone in the district. And, I suspect, was probably no secret to the authorities. I would speculate that an institutionalised blind eye was being turned, as it was a way, through V.A.T. and duty, of retrieving most of the revenue dolled out in benefits to the undeserving. It made sense, for had the equivalent monies been squandered on children’s clothing and food, it would have to be written off as a loss. Being invested wisely in booze and fags meant it wasn’t really being spent – just recycled.
There was one great attraction for me at the Oxy - the beer – it was cheap. It wasn’t particularly palatable but it was exceptionally cheap!
Being anti-social, I had specifically chosen that evening to visit the Oxy because it was mid-week, the day before ‘Gyro Day’, and there was no bingo planned. Therefore, I knew customers would be pretty thin on the ground. Just to make certain, I entered the bar before ‘East Enders’ was screened (no one ever came out ‘til they’d drooled over Pauline in that cardie). As I made my way across the shadowy, stale smoke scented room I could feel the grip of the tacky carpet as it stuck to the soles of my shoes. I ordered and collected a pint of John Smith’s to carry over to a seat against the far wall, facing the television. The glimmer of the evening sun seeping through the brown nicotine stained blinds and reflecting off the T.V. screen, all but rendering it impossible to watch. So, to stave off the tedium, I sat alone tearing beer mats into strips. Then the bowls team made an unexpected entrance by slinking in by the door to my rear. Having suffered another humiliating home defeat, this time at the hands of The Upper Gornal Arthritics Association, the general demeanour of the players was far from good.
The average age of the home side must have been somewhere around seventy-two and three-quarters. Belonging to a generation that had witnessed victories over the Germans in 1945 and 1966, they did not take defeat lightly. (Some of the less lucid amongst the gathering, failing to recognise the Upper Gornal accent as Black Country, actually believed they had been playing a German team.) The shortage of bar staff only added to their frustration. Mick, the steward was doing his best but it wasn’t good enough. There had already been unkind exchanges between various members of the team with accusations of incompetence, impotence, insolence, senility, lack of commitment and treachery being some of the less insulting. I looked on and watched the situation deteriorate as a three-minute wait for service began to test the patience of even the most tolerant team member.
I know I should have intervened when the nudging and jostling degraded into ramming each other’s legs with their ball bags. If I could have made out anything recognisable on the T.V., I would have made an effort. But the loss of more civilised entertainment made these bowling boys too good an act to miss. Now I’m no gentleman when it comes to a row but some of the crafty backbiting I was witnessing, in my objective opinion, was well below the belt.
The only respite in this ungentlemanly behaviour came when a [not so] young blonde female unexpectedly appeared through the doors, which led to the Family Room. Immediately a hush fell on the gathering. The old campaigners sat silently in their seats like school children when a teacher enters the classroom. There they sat, beer glasses held in front of their wrinkled faces, craftily gawking at the young woman over pints of Banks’ Mild.
The woman, whom I knew as a regular in the family room, apparently liked to keep well away from the rough-arsed clientele of the bar. I had once been shown an article from as women’s magazine, which had featured her being interviewed about her career as a model. As the article seemed to skirt around any detail of exactly what sort of modelling she was involved in, the way she almost wore her clothes fuelled speculation. Other speculation had centred on whether or not there had been any silicone enhancement of her oversized breasts. To be fair to the lady, she did appear to do her best on a regular basis, to help viewers make an informed decision by exposing as much of them as she possibly could without risking arrest or pneumonia.
The dress she was wearing this particular evening was no exception. Not being an expert on clothing, the best comparison I can make is to an apron: It had no back above the waistline and what there was of the bulging front was held in place by a couple of frail bootlace straps. And it didn’t take much of a calculation to work out that it was a far shorter distance from the hemline to her bleached blonde head than it was to her white stiletto heeled sandals. In fact, there wasn’t enough fabric in it to wrap a decent portion of fish and chips.
As she had appeared carrying a tray of assorted empty glasses for refilling, I can only assume that she had been hidden away with friends when I had arrived. It must have been the delay in service, caused by the antics of the antiquated athletes that had lured her into the bar, where she stood pushing her ample upholstery against the counter, while she exchanged pleasantries with the steward.
The drinks were served and everything was as it should be until she delved into the depths of her purse in search of payment. Whether it was the realisation that she had an audience or what, I have no idea but for some reason her fingers suddenly became all thumbs and the fumbling sent the purse tumbling, spilling the cash it contained all over the carpet.
There was an immediate clanking of glasses on tables and a rustling of shuffling of arses on seats. The blonde had not got as far as bending over fully to retrieve the spilt spondula than the bowling boys were on the job. More like woods after a jack than Tomahawks from a silo, they were crawling all over the carpet catching some of the currency before it had even finished rolling. There was snorting, snarling, growling, gasping, grappling, grizzling, dribbling and drivelling, as the primed pensioners wriggled, wrangled and wrestled over each other to recover whatever they could.
Now this heaving hump of humanity was made up of good, honest, honourable men. It was not for their own selfish gains that they had risked life and limb and humiliated themselves. No, it was to assist a damsel in distress. One by one, as they slowly dragged themselves painfully into the vertical, they formed into an orderly queue to hand over their individual findings to the blonde (although I did notice one or two of the less able amongst them having to pause for breath just as they reached about knee-level on the young lady’s legs).
The blonde rewarded each of her gallant heroes with a grateful smile as she accepted their individual offerings. Then, when the exercise was completed, she turned towards the steward. He immediately spotted her bewilderment. ‘Still some short?’ he asked in a concerned tone.
‘No,’ she shook her head and frowned, ‘But look at this.’ She emptied the contents of her hands onto the bar for him to count.
He quickly thumbed through the scattering of notes and coins. ‘Twenty-six pounds, sixty-three,’ he declared. And then as an afterthought added, ‘Oh and a set of dentures.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I made it.’ The blonde shook her head again.
‘So?’ he asked.
‘I only came out with a twenty quid. I’ve already bought a drink,’ she mused, ‘and I’m pretty sure the false teeth aren’t mine!’
THE END
And another good story from 'The Master' Paul 8) 
