THE GENERAL PUB LICK

There are pub lick buildings in the north and the south,
Pub lick buildings make me dry in the mouth.
The general pub lick makes me sick.
Pub lick office, pub lick speaking,
Pub lick events have tongues squeaking.
A lick of paint makes you faint,
In a pub lick gallery that’s oh, so quaint.
Pub lick toilets are the worst of all,
For making stomachs heave and my flesh crawl.
Pub lick records are free to trawl,
With a moistened finger,
Relating pub lick matters,
And things that tend to linger.

Pub lick order offences,
A pub lick nuisance,
Pub lick persona… Non-grata,
Pub licking rotas,
For pub-licking pro rata.
Pub lick condemnation,
The pub lick perception,
Surreptitious pub licking—
Involving pub lick deception.

TROUBLE BREWING (A short story) Part 3

After the TV repairman had left, we received a visit from a plumber. He’d been expected and, unlike the TV repairman, was on time. He came to flush the lavatory as part of a local council survey and changed a tap washer while he was at it. He only charged £250 an hour and told Liz her case was unusually complicated and unexpectedly problematic. For her own safety, Liz was asked to remain out of the bathroom for the next three and a half hours while he worked in complete silence. We assumed he was concentrating very hard during this time after which he appeared from Liz’s bathroom and smilingly reassured her that everything was as good as new.
‘As a matter of fact,’ Liz told him with a cup of tea in her hand. ‘I only recently had the bathroom suite fitted.’
‘Mmm,’ rejoined the plumber. ‘I thought it looked new. ’Ow old is it then? I mean the bog—toilet an’ basin an’ that?’
‘I bought them not six weeks ago.’
‘I thought so. In fact I knew it. Anyway, all clear—Hur-hur an’ I oughta be goin’. ’Ere ’ave this an’ ta, luv. Cheers!’ With that, the plumber handed her his unfinished tea.
‘You haven’t finished your tea,’ exclaimed Liz.
‘Naah, well it went cold, didn’t it?’
‘Huh, that’s what happened to me!’ I said but he was already out the door and in his car turning the engine on. Liz shut the door and looked guiltily at the returned cup. I put my arm around her shoulder consolingly as her chest suddenly heaved in convulsive sobbing as her tea temperature remorse tore at her heart inflicting savage grief and pain.
‘Ssh, there, there now, Liz,’ I soothed. ‘Don’t cry; let me put the kettle on.’ I said magnanimously and promptly made us both a cup of steaming hot tea.

After the plumber had left, we drank the hot tea and I took the trouble to reassure Liz of her total innocence with regards to the plumber’s tea going cold.
‘It really wasn’t your fault,’ I told her.
‘Well,’ sobbed Liz. ‘I suppose the tea was hot when I gave it to him.’
‘Exactly!’ I placated gently. It was as she said and equally I didn’t hold her at all responsible for my tea getting cold earlier and with me, it had happened twice! ‘It’s like my tea went cold earlier as well, Liz—twice! I don’t blame you because I know it really wasn’t your fault.’
‘So I’m not to blame?’
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘Then it can’t be my fault!’
‘No, Liz, it isn’t.’
‘Really?’
‘YES!’
Just then, the doorbell rang, but it was a mistake—somebody had come to the wrong house. Liz closed the door after pointing to number 35, opposite, which is where the mistaken caller really wanted to visit.
‘Ooh, thanks a lot,’ said the grateful mistake maker before setting off on his way.
‘Don’t mention it,’ cried Liz, grateful for the opportunity to help someone. ‘I’m just glad of the opportunity to help someone.’ I could tell by her tone she had cheered up considerably but one look at her troubled face seemed to show me a different story.
‘What’s the matter, Liz?’ I refrained from adding ‘now’.
Her face had assumed a perplexed expression as she peered at the unfinished drink in the cup still in her hand.
‘My tea’s gone cold!’ I couldn’t help laughing when she replied. ‘Any chance of another cup?’ She was rude enough to ask.

SEPARATE OLYMPICS EXCLUSIVELY FOR DRUG ABUSING ATHLETES, WHY NOT?

Arthur Bloke, former fruit and vegetable stallholder (Covent Garden), incites controversy as he plays devil’s advocate—here—with his first foray into journalism.

So, disgraced athlete Dwayne Chambers—who tested positive for illicit performance enhancing drugs—is hoping to be allowed to go to Beijing. Whether the (formerly) steroid-taking sprinter is permitted to compete in the next Olympics or not is not the subject for conjecture here. Frankly, I don’t care.
What interests me, on a purely dispassionate basis and partly as a result of the remarkable performance by Chambers as a drug-fuelled runner, is just how much human sporting potential could be achieved, in all fields, if drug taking was permissible. How much punishment could a heavyweight boxer soak up, never mind dish out, if they were souped up and numbed to pain on PCP (Angel dust) or cocaine? Could the world’s fastest man match the speed of athletes accelerated by amphetamines coursing through their bloodstreams? Of course, I recognise the injustice of clean-living, honest athletes unwittingly competing against less than sporting, sportsmen and women who deceitfully and furtively partake of illicit substances to create for them an unfair advantage. So, why not have a separate event for these latter sporting figures?
Just out of scientific curiosity, I’d like to see an Olympics exclusively for drug users and compare results with the ‘clean’ Olympics. The Paralympics afford disabled people to compete in a professional atmosphere without disadvantage. Why, then, not have an event tailored to the current taboo group? Few can disagree, surely, that the results would be extremely interesting. The current day UK is a society saturated in a fanatical devotion to a politically correct ethos riddled with double standards, reinforcing arguments supporting my appeal for alternative Olympics. For example, why are there no ‘Psychotic Olympics’ for the severely mentally ill? It can hardly be more dangerous than blind hammer and discus throwers, which reminds me I must go and look for my mail—my postman is blind!
Ta-ta!
Arthur.

SOMETHING FISHY'S GOING ON...AND ON...