Sunday, 22 June 2014

Just Down From The Sun Pub Where Elvis Performed Last Night...



Just down from the Sun pub where 'Elvis' performed last night, the man who still has his Christmas decorations up was singing Everly Brothers songs at the top of his voice while he did his ironing with the window open.

Two fifteen year old Vauxhall coupés driven by young snapback wearers sped past. The silver metallic one in front hit the speed-bump by the bus stop too quickly and its wide-arch body-kit came off in one piece. The following coupé, a red one, ran over the body kit and dragged it up the road for about a hundred yards, smashing it to pieces. The elderly man with the Scottish accent and the spaniel asleep in the basket attached to his walking-frame said, ‘There’re some right fucking idiots about, aren’t there?’

On the terrace of houses with more plants in the guttering than in the gardens — next door to the house with the Twix wrapper, the AAA battery, the ear-buds, and the dustpan and brush in the concreted-over yard — a man of about 60, wearing a sweatshirt, jeans, and slippers was sitting on his front step listening to The Eurythmics at very high volume. He occasionally joined in with the chorus between drags on his roll-up.

Out in the sticks, builders of all ages listen to 80s chart hits all day long and chubby young white men with no socks, beards, tattoos and flat caps say, ‘Thanks, boss’ to the Asian shopkeepers or do some cycling. A man of about 60 with a grey crew-cut-and-rat-tail discusses his Mercedes with another younger Mercedes owner. They both refer to their cars using the pronouns ‘she’ and 'her'.

Friday, 6 June 2014

I was talking to Mrs Kaur in the shop...



I was talking to Mrs Kaur in the shop, “You know her from number 14?” she said, “Well, every time she comes in here she’s different; one day she’s a goth, one day she’s like, normal, like, white, normal, and then yesterday she came in and she was a bloody muslim!”

In Union Terrace, Mr Coldwell was in his yard trying to spray an old push-bike yellow in the rain. He told me it was for the window display of the florist’s shop on the route of the Tour de France. He was well into his second can of paint but the rain was washing it off as fast as he could spray it on. “I should have waited for a finer day, it looks crap,” he explained. At the house next door, they have finished laying their new plastic lawn and have now embellished it; in one corner stands a plastic statuette of mole wearing a miner’s helmet and, in another, a shiny fake plastic dog turd.

In the road, the magpie was squawking hysterically and dive-bombing the fat black cat which eventually hid underneath a Suzuki Vitara for cover. 
Two cars down from the Vitara, the young mum was struggling to load baby equipment around the large custom built speaker system in the boot of the new VW Polo.
A bit further down again, next to the children's playground that the children never play on, a man with a good two-thirds of his arse showing was mending his old Transit Connect. "Can I borrow your drill, Trevor?" he shouted to the man drinking beer in his front garden, "You cheeky bastard!" the man shouted back.