Bar, bar black sheep.

[Guest]

[Pater]

A gal I was courting in the days when Vienna was kept off the top o' the charts by Joe Dolce's "Shaddup Ya Face", had a stepdad with a uniform past; that is, he was an ex-copper. Her mother had a thang about those sort of folk: soldiers, pilots etc.
Anyway, though both right wingers too, they quite liked me at first until they found out about my drinking habits (they branded me as a "problem drinker" to which I retorted that I had no problem at all getting it down), and my history of stunts such as inventing new dance techniques in night clubs and being handcuffed to a metal rail in the guard's van on a train to Wembley stadium, for trying to ride on our carriage's roof as it left a station stop.
So, on her being told to keep away from me I gatecrashed a little shindig they'd arranged in a local pub where my girlfriend had, by Police 5's arrangement, been paired off with a village knob with features not unlike a ginger tomcat - all 6ft 4in of him.
As the one-armed bandit stood right next to their table I indulged myself with another failing of mine they disapproved of - playing these machines.
Now in those days these things were like discoes, especially if you won anything worth having, and with a hearing-aid-in-later-life-guaranteed racket to match. An hour-and-a-half later and £10 lighter yet in very high spirits (probably vodka but I'm not sure) I left, tapping my girlfriend on the shoulder as I did so.
Outside I waited for 5 minutes. Nothing. Another 3 minutes. Nothing. Thinking the tomcat might be holding her hand I went back to the bar entrance door, opened it halfway and shouted "Jen, 'ere a minute" and went back outside.
Almost as soon as I'd got there the fascist appeared and, wagging his nicotine-stained forefinger as high in the air as possible, said something along the lines of: "Now listen, the best thing you can do is not come within 1000 miles of Jennifer, OK?" To which I replied: "I'd have a job and I have". He went back inside apparently satisfied; the plonker.
I gave it another few minutes in case the giant tom appeared in need of a good neutering; he didn't, though he did. Then I happily toddled off to a public phonebox and ordered a taxi to a fav night club of mine, where later I invented another new dance.
Good, eh?

by Pater.

[Ploe]

Not just good but fun! You really have a talent for prose Pater. You drag the reader along at your wavelength and make the daft remarks as if they were a best mate that was there with you. It's a little short but I'm sure that's because I was enjoying it and didn't want it to end.