That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
British snow for British workers
“...and that floating hotel they’ve got? Five star."
“um, it looks like a prison barge to me…”
“It’s a palace. Cinema and everything.”
Lloyd has that way, that signature way, of the drinker, smoker, and cod philosopher of holding a glass of whisky and cigarette in the same hand.
“Some of them are on two and three hundred pound a week, all found."
He is my host and a generous one. He has given me use of cruet and included me in tonight’s lock-in so I must hide my lack of grace. It would be bad form otherwise. It would be shocking bad form, even for me. The fact I have a bar tab has nothing to do with it.
“Lazy shiftless bastards the lot of them…”
“…no! Those Bolshie union men from Lincolnshire. Never liked Wiltshire neither, don’t ask me why.”
Like all Other People, he has no rigour, he is unfamiliar with parallax let alone method, to him, it is axiomatic. Thankfully the news screen has changed to Africa. Quick drag on his Lambert & Butler;
“He’s another one. I’ve gone right off him.”
“Yeah, look at him, bloody rolling in it, he’s minted that one.”
“Well, I don’t know…
“That’s him. Shandy Rye! Yeah, coining it in, he is. Smith was right. Look what they’ve done to the place, bloody shambles. From your neck of the woods too, I believe.”
“Yes! Smith’s father was a jock butcher from Kirkintilloch, I’m telling you…”
With the ease of a boy playing cowboys and Indians, he can extend his first two fingers, Superking and all, and make a gun to aim in my face to emphasise the points as he goes; “That’s… what… I’m… saying…” ( bang… bang… bang…)