Local pub

The Furrener and the Budget

One autumn evening in a Suffolk pub, five locals – Darkie Deakons, Charlie Whymonger, Doody Parkes, and Tubal and Tinny Alecock were in a pub.

They sat close together in their corner, three by the fire and two next to the bar on the far side, opposite the door. No one else was in the public bar. A stranger came in, and instead of going to the vacant part of the bar, nearer the door, he entered the inner sanctum and stood between the two brothers sitting at the bar. He didn’t say ‘Good evening’, ‘Hello’, or anything – he just totally ignored them.

After a quiet lull in proceedings as the five locals eyed the stranger up and down, Darkie Deakons (so called because of his jet black hair and moustache, and his constant five o’clock shadow) said. ‘Cort enny rabb’ts laytlee, Chaarlie?’ The coded signal was given; the fun was about to begin.

The stranger ordered a light and bitter, turned to the locals present. and said, ‘Bleedin’ Chancellor!’

Darkie: Wot yew say?

Stranger: Bleedin’ Chancellor!

Darkie: Nuth’n wrong wi’ th’ Chanceler: wee loike ‘m heeya. Charlie: ‘At’s roight.

Doody: ‘At’s a fact. bor.

Stranger: He’s put the bleedin’ price of petrol up.

Darkie: Oi bet yew’re from town, Lunn’n, Oi reck’n.

Stranger: Yeah. How do you know?

Darkie: ‘Cos yew townies never lern. Oi’ve bin goo’n t’ ‘iss ‘ere garridge fer fifteen year, and he charges me th’ sayme fer petr’I then as he do now.

Charlie: ‘At’s roight.
Doody: ‘At’ s a fact. bor.

Stranger: How come?

Darkie: Well. th’ Chanceler hev put th’ proice a gallons up, ‘n’ yew buggers never lern: yew townies still goo ‘n’ aarst fer four gall’ns, foive gall’ns, whatever. But we aarst for foive pounds’ worth. He charged uss foive pound ‘en ‘n’ he chaarge uss foive pounds now.

Charlie: ‘At’s roight.
Doody: ‘At’s a fact. bor.

Stranger: But you don’t get as much petrol!

The Running Buck , Ipswich

Darkie: Wot dew yew mean? He don’t put four pound ten shill’ns in ‘n’ aarst fer a foiver. He put in foive pounds ‘n’ he charges foive pounds. Moind yew, he don’t put in foive pounds ten shill’ns ‘n’ charge a foiver. Just the foiver’s worth.

Stranger: But you don’t get as much petrol!

Darkie: See … yew buggers never lern. In fact Oi git more fer moy munny. In ‘at toime th’ Chanceler hev devalued the pound twoice, soo Oi git more fer me munny. Yew duzzy fuel! Caarn’t yew see ‘at?

Charlie: ‘At’s roight.
Doody: ‘At’s a fact. bor.

Stranger: But you don’t get as much PETROL!

Tubal: ‘At’s noo good, Daarkie, ‘ay never lern.
Tinny: He jest doont see ut. do he? Duzzy owd fuel. The exasperated stranger is hurrying his pint to go.

Darkie: Moind yew, Chaarlie, Oi doon’t appear t’ git ser menny moiles t’ th’ gall’n ai wot Oi used to!

Tubal: More doont Oi!

Tinny: Me neether.

Charlie: ‘At’s roight.
Doody: ‘At’s a fact bor!

The stranger finished his pint, looked at the serious-looking gathering in total and utter disbelief, and left very quickly. Suddenly, seven broad grins appeared on the faces of the five locals, the landlord…and you having just read this true story.

But. if the stranger had been polite in the first place and followed protocol. this story would never have happened … or would it?

Care of Charlie Haylock / Sloightly on the Huh

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