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A Spring in the step.

Well, Easter has rolled around yet again, Spring is in the air and it’s no wonder the dust bunnies at Tippler Towers are breeding like rabbits. But bollocks to cleaning the living space - there’s so much more fun you can have with a feather duster.
Anyways, with half-decent weather comes the half-indecent clothing of the girlies, so sitting at home fretting about hunting down cobwebs, cleaning windows or rustling up a SWAT team to defumigate the bog can wait till it inevitably starts raining and the temperatures plummet in time for what we around these parts laughably call ‘Summer’.

That fat, lazy bastard Denzil, meanwhile, wouldn’t recognise a vacuum cleaner if it leaped out of the closet and tried to blow him off but, then again, my dear old drunken mate has never set much store by hygiene, personal or otherwise.

There’s that famous quote: “Whenever I hear the word ‘culture’ I remove the safety from my Browning!” and if you were to swap ‘culture’ for the word ‘bleach’ and ‘Browning’ for ‘cricket bat’ you’d get a rough idea of Denzil’s attitude to cleanliness.
His kitchen sink is the ideal breeding ground for as-yet-unclassified  lifeforms. These feverishly multiply among the filthy cups, stained saucers, stinky plates and beer mugs until Winter, when they move en masse to the relative warmth and comfort of Denzil’s grey, disgusting and overwhelmingly fetid undercrackers. It’s a wonder Shameless the Barman even lets him near The Oirish, to be honest, let alone allowing him within ten metres of the lav.
Denzil’s more unsavoury aspects have often caused our very good and much-loved friend Sam to wrinkle his nose in disgust, but then again he can be a bit of a pompous twat on occasion. Sam is a wordsmith of some repute (most of it ‘ill’) and not surprisingly for one with a tendency to lean towards the pretentious uses a pen name - Sam. J. Weerd. Nobody knows what the ‘J’ stands for, of course, although Denzil has posited a few theories over the years.
These get ever-more outrageous in direct proportion to the amount of beer being imbibed (and as Sam gets more huffy) to the point that, one Christmas, Denzil suddenly slapped his forehead, leapt unsteadily to his feet and screamed at the top of his voice to the whole bar that he finally knew exactly what mystery name was being represented by the tenth letter of the alphabet.
The fact that he then yelled out a very short word indeed that actually began with the letter ‘C’ did not fill Our Sam with one jot of festive spirit but had the rest of us nearly pissing ourselves.
As it happens, the last time the Three Musthavebeers were together, Denzil had recently returned from Blighty where his doddery old mum had clearly done his washing, or at least enough of it to stop him
minging for a fortnight. So it was with considerably less bitching and whining than usual that the Palais de Bo’s Arse sports bar and grill had what Tippler will euphemistically call the pleasure of our company for the first time in a ‘coon’s age.
The reason for our patronage was that this bottled-testosterone factory was showing a football match between Sam’s beloved West Ham and Denzil’s equally adored Arsenal.
While Denzil has had a long and mostly unrequited love affair with The Gunners over the years, often involving pain, betrayal, even the occasional threat of divorce, Sam is a relative newcomer to the
beautiful game. He finally took on the Hammers after a brief flirtation with Aston Villa, presumably because they wear the same colours and he didn’t have to cough-up for a new scarf.
As the game got going and the lager started flowing, Denzil got busy showing a ‘forrin’ barmaid the intricacies of the offside rule using salt and pepper pots, a fork, a beermat, a sugar cube and, with a flourish, a past-its-shag-by-date johnny plucked from his jeans pocket.
The barmaid barely batted an eyelid at this first offence but one had the feeling that a caution was not far off. Denzil has been red-carded on numerous occasions, usually for trying to go down early in the opposition’s box, but this one took the biscuit.
Just as fat lad was pointing out to the by-now fidgeting barmaid that she ought to learn about football (‘not soccer, luv’) and support The Gunners, his team duly scored and the pub erupted.
Sam wasn’t too happy, of course, but then his disappointment was as nothing compared to the shock and horror a moment later as Denzil looked at the telly, turned back to the barmaid and roared: “Yeeees, one-nil. We’re one up! That’s why you should follow The Gunners, girl...”
He paused. The pub held it’s breath. Denzil went for it. “Yes, darlin’. Because you’ll always love it when it’s one up the Arse!”

 

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'Notes on the back of a beermat.'

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