Not everybody will know what I’m talking about here, but for those who do, it’s a true story.
I was out one night in my pub of choice, having – of all things – a drink, and it was an enjoyable enough evening if not particularly exciting. It was also a weekday, and therefore some of us would have to get up for work, while others of a more mendicant persuasion were happy enough to drink into the wee hours at my expense. I speak, of course, of my welfare-sponging friends.
It’s late, said Jimbo, my neighbour. I’m getting a taxi. What are you doing?
I’ll go too, I said. I have to work, not like some of these fuckers.
With that, one of the fuckers stood up. Eugene is his name, and he’s a pleasant enough individual, though not the brightest.
I called Pat le Taxi, he said. He’s running me up to my house to collect a guitar and then we’re coming back for a few pints in Shrek’s.
Great, I replied. We’ll wait outside Shrek’s and then Pat le Taxi can take us home.
Great said Eugene.
Great, said Jimbo.
So we casually finished our drinks, did a bit more talking of shit and strolled around to Shrek’s.
Howya lads, said Shrek, through a hole in the door. Stand into the shadow a bit there so the cops don’t notice ya. Are ya comin in?
No. We have work in the morning.
OK lads. Clunk!
Pat le Taxi is an efficient operator and before very long his limo glided to a halt beside us. Eugene struggled with a large guitar case in the passenger seat and he was clearly having trouble getting out, partly because he’s so fat and partly because he was shitfaced drunk.
It was when he slammed the guitar case against the dashboard for the fifth time that I got to utter the words I thought I would never, ever have a chance to say:
Careful with that axe, Eugene.