So Bloggiana and I are on a pub-crawl. We are slithering round the bars of our stone-faced northern market town, trying to put behind us the general stress caused by the divorce story that never ends and the lodger-moving-in story that never begins. I am on Tequila slammers; Bloggiana on sparklywhite cider, and the barman who obviously passed his NVQ in Health and Safety summa cum laude is on Diet Soda. It is late and the slammers are beginning to do their work but through the mist, I can hear Bloggiana trying to tell me about the visit she has just made earlier in the day to her godson - the one she had never previously even laid eyes upon but the one she had promised to corrupt the minute he hit the age of fourteen.
Sho I take him to this little bishtro I know, she says, one jusht far enough from his shchool that at least a few of his friends may catch ush there. We are at an outshide table. I light up. Pour myshelf a glass, offer the boy one too, look him in the eye and chin the PG. Then I shay Sho, I shay, sho Adolesco, how is life treating you then?
Now I should tell you, stumbles Bloggiana, that this Adolesco sheems like an uncannily nice boy to me. I mean, she slurs on, even his shpots look nice. And when I collected him from his houshe, the houshemashter came up to me and said Ah Mrs Bloggiana, nice to meet you. Now look after him, he’s a jolly nice boy.
Bloggiana rambles on. Through a haze of sparklywhite cidery spit, I decipher that she finds herself a little unnerved. She had been looking forward to meeting a perfect stinker. She had been looking forward to having a PG downing competition with him, to smoking one of his roll-ups, to laughing furiously with him as they conjured up an image of the Headmaster’s wife in a thong. And instead, she finds herself confronted with a bastion of niceness.
As a result, the conversation that unrolls between corrupting godmother and apparently incorruptible godson is a teeny bit stilted, Bloggiana admits. Won any matches lately? she asks genially. A few, comes the reply. Read any good books lately? she perseveres. Loads, comes the response. Got many friends? Yeah. Bloggiana says at this point, she feels herself seized with panic. Suddenly the desire to cut out the glass and just glug the PG straight from the bottle is almost overwhelming, she says. But thankfully, in a last ditch effort at self-preservation, Bloggiana manages to notice something awry about godson Adolesco's knuckles.
What happened there? she ventures. Oh, rejoins Adolesco, that was Measly Twit-Sniveller. Bloggiana puts the bottle down and reunites her hand with her glass-stem. Go on, she says, feeling a slight frisson in some part of her she can’t quite locate. Well, says the boy, Measly accused me of farting in his face. And I said Measly I did not fart in your face. And then I looked round and Measly was about to punch me on the nose. So I punched him first. Lamped him.
Golly, says Bloggiana, locating the site of the frisson and squirming into it affectionately. And then what happened? Well Measly had to go to hospital, says Adolesco. Split cheek went septic, he adds. Crikey, says Bloggiana. And how is he now? she asks almost reverently. Doesn’t give me much trouble any more, Adolesco replies, simultaneously cricking the fingers on his injured hand and tearing up the wrapper of a sugar-lump into very small bits indeed.
At this, Bloggiana knocks back another measure of PG and turns to the boy. Now Adolesco, she ventures, have you ever thought of taking up smoking?
Sho I take him to this little bishtro I know, she says, one jusht far enough from his shchool that at least a few of his friends may catch ush there. We are at an outshide table. I light up. Pour myshelf a glass, offer the boy one too, look him in the eye and chin the PG. Then I shay Sho, I shay, sho Adolesco, how is life treating you then?
Now I should tell you, stumbles Bloggiana, that this Adolesco sheems like an uncannily nice boy to me. I mean, she slurs on, even his shpots look nice. And when I collected him from his houshe, the houshemashter came up to me and said Ah Mrs Bloggiana, nice to meet you. Now look after him, he’s a jolly nice boy.
Bloggiana rambles on. Through a haze of sparklywhite cidery spit, I decipher that she finds herself a little unnerved. She had been looking forward to meeting a perfect stinker. She had been looking forward to having a PG downing competition with him, to smoking one of his roll-ups, to laughing furiously with him as they conjured up an image of the Headmaster’s wife in a thong. And instead, she finds herself confronted with a bastion of niceness.
As a result, the conversation that unrolls between corrupting godmother and apparently incorruptible godson is a teeny bit stilted, Bloggiana admits. Won any matches lately? she asks genially. A few, comes the reply. Read any good books lately? she perseveres. Loads, comes the response. Got many friends? Yeah. Bloggiana says at this point, she feels herself seized with panic. Suddenly the desire to cut out the glass and just glug the PG straight from the bottle is almost overwhelming, she says. But thankfully, in a last ditch effort at self-preservation, Bloggiana manages to notice something awry about godson Adolesco's knuckles.
What happened there? she ventures. Oh, rejoins Adolesco, that was Measly Twit-Sniveller. Bloggiana puts the bottle down and reunites her hand with her glass-stem. Go on, she says, feeling a slight frisson in some part of her she can’t quite locate. Well, says the boy, Measly accused me of farting in his face. And I said Measly I did not fart in your face. And then I looked round and Measly was about to punch me on the nose. So I punched him first. Lamped him.
Golly, says Bloggiana, locating the site of the frisson and squirming into it affectionately. And then what happened? Well Measly had to go to hospital, says Adolesco. Split cheek went septic, he adds. Crikey, says Bloggiana. And how is he now? she asks almost reverently. Doesn’t give me much trouble any more, Adolesco replies, simultaneously cricking the fingers on his injured hand and tearing up the wrapper of a sugar-lump into very small bits indeed.
At this, Bloggiana knocks back another measure of PG and turns to the boy. Now Adolesco, she ventures, have you ever thought of taking up smoking?
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