Dougy
04-28-2011, 06:12 PM
‘I say San’ Rhubarb ‘n’ Custard ont’ ****in’ telly,’ Dave bursts out between mouthfuls of tea. ‘I say they got Rhubarb ‘n’ Custard ont’ ****in’ telly!’
‘I ‘eard yer the first time. I say I heard yer the first time, Dave.’ She emerges from her parlour in a dressing gown. Her hair is in rollers and the interview is this morning, she’s got to look her best. They’d been together since she helped him read the letter on the table.
‘I used to watch that mind. Thirty ****in’ year ago, hun.’
‘Aye. Ah mind that morph and Tony Hart.’
He smiles to himself, ‘That **** Tony Hart. He were a ****ing legend, weren’t he?’ Dave asks.
‘Aye,’ San’ smiles and disappears back into her parlour.
Dave stands and rubs his groin. The weather hadn’t ceased – fluffy marshmallow shapes floating down beyond the window. Dave sees a car wheel spinning a pirouette in the road. The neighbour gets out of his car and kicks it, a spade lies down the road where he has dug a driveway in the wall of snow.
‘Need to clear the ****in’ roads. Need to sort the country out. I should be in charge, eh? Me, in charge of running th’ country? A say San!?’
‘Aye, Dave,’ she hollers from the bedroom.
Dave picks up the letter, already opened three days previous. A big thumbs up on the header. He knew what that meant. It meant good luck and that was good for a reason. San read the letter and said it was from the Gas Board – they’d be increasing their charges. Bloody gas board? Who the **** were they to tell him they were going to put their prices up? Dave goes to throw the letter in the bin noting the sets of numbers in the bulk of the incomprehensible text. He could read numbers, but even they sometime swam in front of his eyes like fish in a tank of ink. That were a pound sign – rip off bastards. He stops and puts the letter on the mantle-piece; San would do her nut in. She says not to throw it away, but keep it safe.
Dave puts his NCB jacket on and pulls on his rigger boots. His dut is firmly placed on top of his bald head. His wrinkled forehead bulging like bacon and broken nose give him a place in society, sets him apart from the others.
He does the buttons up on his jacket and steps out into the snow, wading through its petrified shore.
‘Hey, mate. D’yer want a hand?’ He asks the man in the street who is wielding the spade like a weapon.
‘What!’ The man says back.
‘I’m only asking if yer want a ****ing hand. Samaritans and all that – good will to all mankind and that ****e.’
‘What the **** are you on about?’
‘Listen mate. Don’t give us that you little **** or I’ll put you through that ****ing windscreen of yours. D’you need a hand,eh?’
‘Er, aye. Thanks.’ The man lowers the spade and gets into the drivers seat.
Dave gets behind the car and starts to push. The man puts the car in gear but it wheelspins uselessly.
‘Got any ****ing salt!?’ Dave asks.
‘Salt?’
‘Aye. To put on the ground. Might thaw the bastard out.’
The man gets out of his car and runs to his house but manages to collide into the bins.
Help yer fellow man Dave thinks to himself, every ****er in the country should be doing this. Dave reckons Tony Hart’d do the same if it were some **** that lived next door to him.
The man comes out with something in his hand. He begins to sprinkle the salt onto the road.
A horn perks their attention and both men look up. There’s an estate car with a load of people in it. The driver looks agitated. The driver winds the window down. ‘Hi. We’re from Northern News. Is this Oak road?’
‘Might be,’ Dave says back. ‘What the **** do you want?’
‘Can you move your bloody car? We’re in a hurry,’ the driver asks.
Dave doesn’t like this bloke’s demeanour or tone. ‘You can ****ing wait.’
‘You don’t seem to understand….’
That’s all Dave needs to hear. He hates being told he doesn’t understand. Years of being told that by the teachers at school have conditioned him. He rips the driver from the seat, rips the seatbelt off it’s fitting and pulls him through the open window.
After Dave finishes with the driver, he dusts him off and puts his glasses back on him. The driver now looks drunk, his glasses are askew on his face. There are two women in the back of the vehicle who are desperately trying to climb over the front seats, presumably to drive off.
Dave opens the driver's door and pushes the dazed man back in. 'You can **** off back to where yer come from. No **** tells me I don't understand, because I ****ing well do.' He grins at the girls and gives a little laugh, 'Alright ladies?'
'Steven? Steven! Drive!' One of the girls shouts to the man in the front. The driver is fumbling for a set of keys and attempts to put them in the ignition.
Dave picks up the spade and strides off to the house. There's purpose in his stride. He has a mission. Sandra totters passed him on high heels.
'Dave. Mind that bill, mind. Keep it on the table.'
'Eh? The one with the thumb on't.'
Sandra stops and looks up. She recollects the famous symbol with a grin and says, 'Aye!'
'You off for that job an' that, eh?'
'Aye.'
'Good luck hun.'
'Cheers chuck!' She picks her way down the snow swamped path. The snow comes up to her knees and she wades to the road where it is clear.
Dave picks his nose. He regards the green bug on his finger and picks out a hair. He chews the morsel and begins to work. He works in a fervour that is unstoppable.
'Can I have my spade back, please?' Asks the man with car trouble. Dave continues to swipe at snow in his drive way. Snow is being thrown behind him in as he makes his way to the garage. 'Er. Excuse me. Can I have the spade, please?' He asks again.
'****. Off!' He says this without losing a stroke. His father used to say that work set you free and that laziness was a symptom of the devil. Got to work that ****e off, he hadn't done owt that morning.
Behind him a vehicle can be heard speeding off. Dave wipes his brow and smiles, 'Tony Hart – ****in' leg-end.'
When his work is done he stretches. He puts his hands on his waist and leans back. The driveway is clear. The fact that he has no car bears no relevance to him; the fact that he cleared it has a distinct and clear logic in his mind. He is cleansed. Behind Dave, his next door neighbour is making slow progress.
Dave raises his right leg slightly and lets it out. A ripper of a fart that can be heard, even over the overworked engine of his neighbour. He goes into his living room and sits down. The Carpenters are playing on the radio. He closes his eyes and wanders in his mind to a place in the 1970s. Before long he is asleep and soon murmuring away to the subliminal messages the music offer him. His leg kicks out and breaks the coffee table. He stands and scratches his head.
'Job Club,' he says and storms out of his house the door wide open. He has no need to worry as no one is stupid enough to walk into his house.
A policeman examines the bloodstains in the snow where Dave pummelled the driver.
Dave nods to the policeman who smiles back and cautiously enters his car as if he were backing away from some predator at the zoo. Dave's stride has purpose, like every morning regardless of the knee high snow he stomps through it toward the high street where it is more clear.
In his hand is the supposed gas bill – he'll need to pay that once he's been to the Job Club.
His boots clop, clop, clop up the road. Boots that are slightly too big for Dave. Boots that were once his father's.
'Morning. Lovely morning, i'n't it?' he announces to an elderly couple. 'Off t't job club. Any jobs gowin'? I can't do gardens y'know and clear snow and stuff. Chuffin' nora! ****in' freezing. Them ****s in't government aren't doin' nowt t'clear snow.'
The couple smile back at him and Dave's off again. The Job Club is nestled conveniently next to the Post Office, an Off License and a Pub.
He holds the slip of paper in front of him like some compass, it's pretty gusty today and a the wind takes the slip from his hands. It flies from him and over to a group of men who stomp at the snow. They huddle around their cigarettes engaging in conversation. The paper slip is pinned to one man in an overcoat and he picks it from his jacket curiously and his eyes widen as he reads the note.
'**** me!' He gasps. The other men gather around him, but Dave is pulling the men off. One slips in the snow another crashes into a parked car.
'Me ****in' gas bill. Gie's me ****in' bill y'****s!' The man holds up the paper like it's the holy grail and Dave snatches it from his grasp. The man is mouthing something to himself. Dave turns the paper in his hand so the thumb points upwards. It's pointing the direction he needs to go. Prompt payment of debts is something close to godliness, failure to pay is rubbing shoulders with the devil and he'd seen that in his mother. He has seen the scars on his mothers face to prove this, his father's wrath never waned in this respect. He's going to pay the debt once he'd been to job club. 'Sweep ****in' streets if I have to – clear the ****ers. Those ****s in government, work shy ****s,' he mutters.
Some people nod to him, some do not, some simply keep out of his way.
The Job Club is crowded and all heads turn when Dave barges in. He greets the men he passes in the queue and walks to the front. The man at the counter is about to turn and curse at the intrusion but thinks better of it and waits for the daily fiasco to end.
'Got any ****in' jobs? I can do gardens and I can clear snow,' Dave says to the man behind the grill.
'Let me have a look, Dave,' says Simon. Simon does this every morning and flicks through his diary, points at a random date and looks over the diary at Dave. 'We might have something tomorrow Dave. Possible a garden. Can you come back tomorrow?'
'There's ****in' nowt mind. These days all a bloke needs is some honest ****ing work. Never mind these ****s in London in their ****ing suits getting paid a ****ing mint!' Dave glances down at the slip of paper in his hand. The thumbs up is pointing back to the door. There's a curious amount of zeroes on the paper. He knows what a zero is, because that's what his English teacher said he was. He drew the big zero on the blackboard in front of the entire class and made Dave stand under it. Dave then began to punch his English teacher unconscious.
He walks out unaware that the men in the queue are nervous.
The newsagent's displays today newsworthy events. Someone in the village has won £2 million. The newsagent billboard has a big thumbs up and he makes his way to paper shop.
Mr Singh smiles at Dave. 'Morning, Dave.'
'Mornin'. ****in' freezing ain't it.' He puts the paper slip on the counter. 'Anywhere I can pay this off?
Mr Singh’s takes a look at the slip of paper. His hand scrambles for his glasses. He fumbles to get them on and stares at the paper. He mouths something. Mr Singh looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.
'Do you know what you've got here?' Mr Singh articulates in his best english.
'A ****ing Gas Bill.' Dave opens the door to the paper shop and spits outside, a green phlegmy snot ball; steam rising from it. He regards it melting the snow around it.
'It's two ****ing million pounds Dave.'
'Two ****in' million pounds? That's a lot of money. I could buy a racehorse with that.'
'You can buy 20 racehorses with that.'
'Sandra said it was the Gas Bill.'
'I saw Sandra walk into the Lion's Head half an hour ago with another bloke.'
Life has been simple for Dave until his first ever girlfriend. He works out the Math in his head. Dave points to the letter, 'Do us a favour. Look after that little ****er there, will yer.' He storms out of the shop.
'Excuse me, but are you a Mr...' A film crew surround Dave. A young woman with a microphone pushes a microphone in Dave's face. He rips it from her and throws it in the street. The camera is also thrown, this time under the wheels of a passing bus.
'**** off, you ****s!'
The reporter squeals, 'My ****ing Mic!'
Dave is off and making a line for the pub. The only pub in the village. It will be busy this morning as the dole money would be flowing.
Smoking men part to let Dave pass. Despite the new laws there is a ribbon of silver smoke above the optics. Sandra is nestled between two men one of whom is groping her breasts. She giggles and takes a gulp of her wine. As she does she notices Dave approach and stops. She lowers the glass and smiles. It falters and she attempts to make up an excuse.
'I got the job,' she says, the glimmer of a smile.
'I paid the ****ing Gas Bill off,' Dave says, 'Alright boys?' The men either side of her trade glances.
'Paid the gas bill?' Sandra asks.
'Yeah. It wasn't that ****in' much.'
'Where is it?'
'I binned the letter. Don't need it now, do I?'
Sandra stands and knocks the table of drinks over. Shouts of surprise and curses erupt. 'You ****ing docile twat! You don't ****ing understand what you've just done you ****!'
Understand? I don't understand? Dave fumbles for reason and loses. He punches Sandra square in the nose knocking her back into her seat. Blood flows in torrents and he attacks the two men.
The pub makes room for Dave as he continues to pummel the two men. The spectators nonchalantly drink and make passing comments on the blows Dave is making on the two men. A kick to the head and the barman who has his arms rested on the bar makes a similarity to a goal kick much to the agreement of other drinkers.
Sandra blares in the corner, a rag to her nose stemming the flow of bright red blood.
'Dave. Ahm sorry. Ahm sorry. Please...' She wails.
Dave pushes he back and she falls over the two dilapidated forms on the ground. He puts his Donkey Jacket back and says, ‘Greedy ****ing pigs.’ He walks out of the pub, scratches his balls and wonders what he'll do with £2million.
‘I ‘eard yer the first time. I say I heard yer the first time, Dave.’ She emerges from her parlour in a dressing gown. Her hair is in rollers and the interview is this morning, she’s got to look her best. They’d been together since she helped him read the letter on the table.
‘I used to watch that mind. Thirty ****in’ year ago, hun.’
‘Aye. Ah mind that morph and Tony Hart.’
He smiles to himself, ‘That **** Tony Hart. He were a ****ing legend, weren’t he?’ Dave asks.
‘Aye,’ San’ smiles and disappears back into her parlour.
Dave stands and rubs his groin. The weather hadn’t ceased – fluffy marshmallow shapes floating down beyond the window. Dave sees a car wheel spinning a pirouette in the road. The neighbour gets out of his car and kicks it, a spade lies down the road where he has dug a driveway in the wall of snow.
‘Need to clear the ****in’ roads. Need to sort the country out. I should be in charge, eh? Me, in charge of running th’ country? A say San!?’
‘Aye, Dave,’ she hollers from the bedroom.
Dave picks up the letter, already opened three days previous. A big thumbs up on the header. He knew what that meant. It meant good luck and that was good for a reason. San read the letter and said it was from the Gas Board – they’d be increasing their charges. Bloody gas board? Who the **** were they to tell him they were going to put their prices up? Dave goes to throw the letter in the bin noting the sets of numbers in the bulk of the incomprehensible text. He could read numbers, but even they sometime swam in front of his eyes like fish in a tank of ink. That were a pound sign – rip off bastards. He stops and puts the letter on the mantle-piece; San would do her nut in. She says not to throw it away, but keep it safe.
Dave puts his NCB jacket on and pulls on his rigger boots. His dut is firmly placed on top of his bald head. His wrinkled forehead bulging like bacon and broken nose give him a place in society, sets him apart from the others.
He does the buttons up on his jacket and steps out into the snow, wading through its petrified shore.
‘Hey, mate. D’yer want a hand?’ He asks the man in the street who is wielding the spade like a weapon.
‘What!’ The man says back.
‘I’m only asking if yer want a ****ing hand. Samaritans and all that – good will to all mankind and that ****e.’
‘What the **** are you on about?’
‘Listen mate. Don’t give us that you little **** or I’ll put you through that ****ing windscreen of yours. D’you need a hand,eh?’
‘Er, aye. Thanks.’ The man lowers the spade and gets into the drivers seat.
Dave gets behind the car and starts to push. The man puts the car in gear but it wheelspins uselessly.
‘Got any ****ing salt!?’ Dave asks.
‘Salt?’
‘Aye. To put on the ground. Might thaw the bastard out.’
The man gets out of his car and runs to his house but manages to collide into the bins.
Help yer fellow man Dave thinks to himself, every ****er in the country should be doing this. Dave reckons Tony Hart’d do the same if it were some **** that lived next door to him.
The man comes out with something in his hand. He begins to sprinkle the salt onto the road.
A horn perks their attention and both men look up. There’s an estate car with a load of people in it. The driver looks agitated. The driver winds the window down. ‘Hi. We’re from Northern News. Is this Oak road?’
‘Might be,’ Dave says back. ‘What the **** do you want?’
‘Can you move your bloody car? We’re in a hurry,’ the driver asks.
Dave doesn’t like this bloke’s demeanour or tone. ‘You can ****ing wait.’
‘You don’t seem to understand….’
That’s all Dave needs to hear. He hates being told he doesn’t understand. Years of being told that by the teachers at school have conditioned him. He rips the driver from the seat, rips the seatbelt off it’s fitting and pulls him through the open window.
After Dave finishes with the driver, he dusts him off and puts his glasses back on him. The driver now looks drunk, his glasses are askew on his face. There are two women in the back of the vehicle who are desperately trying to climb over the front seats, presumably to drive off.
Dave opens the driver's door and pushes the dazed man back in. 'You can **** off back to where yer come from. No **** tells me I don't understand, because I ****ing well do.' He grins at the girls and gives a little laugh, 'Alright ladies?'
'Steven? Steven! Drive!' One of the girls shouts to the man in the front. The driver is fumbling for a set of keys and attempts to put them in the ignition.
Dave picks up the spade and strides off to the house. There's purpose in his stride. He has a mission. Sandra totters passed him on high heels.
'Dave. Mind that bill, mind. Keep it on the table.'
'Eh? The one with the thumb on't.'
Sandra stops and looks up. She recollects the famous symbol with a grin and says, 'Aye!'
'You off for that job an' that, eh?'
'Aye.'
'Good luck hun.'
'Cheers chuck!' She picks her way down the snow swamped path. The snow comes up to her knees and she wades to the road where it is clear.
Dave picks his nose. He regards the green bug on his finger and picks out a hair. He chews the morsel and begins to work. He works in a fervour that is unstoppable.
'Can I have my spade back, please?' Asks the man with car trouble. Dave continues to swipe at snow in his drive way. Snow is being thrown behind him in as he makes his way to the garage. 'Er. Excuse me. Can I have the spade, please?' He asks again.
'****. Off!' He says this without losing a stroke. His father used to say that work set you free and that laziness was a symptom of the devil. Got to work that ****e off, he hadn't done owt that morning.
Behind him a vehicle can be heard speeding off. Dave wipes his brow and smiles, 'Tony Hart – ****in' leg-end.'
When his work is done he stretches. He puts his hands on his waist and leans back. The driveway is clear. The fact that he has no car bears no relevance to him; the fact that he cleared it has a distinct and clear logic in his mind. He is cleansed. Behind Dave, his next door neighbour is making slow progress.
Dave raises his right leg slightly and lets it out. A ripper of a fart that can be heard, even over the overworked engine of his neighbour. He goes into his living room and sits down. The Carpenters are playing on the radio. He closes his eyes and wanders in his mind to a place in the 1970s. Before long he is asleep and soon murmuring away to the subliminal messages the music offer him. His leg kicks out and breaks the coffee table. He stands and scratches his head.
'Job Club,' he says and storms out of his house the door wide open. He has no need to worry as no one is stupid enough to walk into his house.
A policeman examines the bloodstains in the snow where Dave pummelled the driver.
Dave nods to the policeman who smiles back and cautiously enters his car as if he were backing away from some predator at the zoo. Dave's stride has purpose, like every morning regardless of the knee high snow he stomps through it toward the high street where it is more clear.
In his hand is the supposed gas bill – he'll need to pay that once he's been to the Job Club.
His boots clop, clop, clop up the road. Boots that are slightly too big for Dave. Boots that were once his father's.
'Morning. Lovely morning, i'n't it?' he announces to an elderly couple. 'Off t't job club. Any jobs gowin'? I can't do gardens y'know and clear snow and stuff. Chuffin' nora! ****in' freezing. Them ****s in't government aren't doin' nowt t'clear snow.'
The couple smile back at him and Dave's off again. The Job Club is nestled conveniently next to the Post Office, an Off License and a Pub.
He holds the slip of paper in front of him like some compass, it's pretty gusty today and a the wind takes the slip from his hands. It flies from him and over to a group of men who stomp at the snow. They huddle around their cigarettes engaging in conversation. The paper slip is pinned to one man in an overcoat and he picks it from his jacket curiously and his eyes widen as he reads the note.
'**** me!' He gasps. The other men gather around him, but Dave is pulling the men off. One slips in the snow another crashes into a parked car.
'Me ****in' gas bill. Gie's me ****in' bill y'****s!' The man holds up the paper like it's the holy grail and Dave snatches it from his grasp. The man is mouthing something to himself. Dave turns the paper in his hand so the thumb points upwards. It's pointing the direction he needs to go. Prompt payment of debts is something close to godliness, failure to pay is rubbing shoulders with the devil and he'd seen that in his mother. He has seen the scars on his mothers face to prove this, his father's wrath never waned in this respect. He's going to pay the debt once he'd been to job club. 'Sweep ****in' streets if I have to – clear the ****ers. Those ****s in government, work shy ****s,' he mutters.
Some people nod to him, some do not, some simply keep out of his way.
The Job Club is crowded and all heads turn when Dave barges in. He greets the men he passes in the queue and walks to the front. The man at the counter is about to turn and curse at the intrusion but thinks better of it and waits for the daily fiasco to end.
'Got any ****in' jobs? I can do gardens and I can clear snow,' Dave says to the man behind the grill.
'Let me have a look, Dave,' says Simon. Simon does this every morning and flicks through his diary, points at a random date and looks over the diary at Dave. 'We might have something tomorrow Dave. Possible a garden. Can you come back tomorrow?'
'There's ****in' nowt mind. These days all a bloke needs is some honest ****ing work. Never mind these ****s in London in their ****ing suits getting paid a ****ing mint!' Dave glances down at the slip of paper in his hand. The thumbs up is pointing back to the door. There's a curious amount of zeroes on the paper. He knows what a zero is, because that's what his English teacher said he was. He drew the big zero on the blackboard in front of the entire class and made Dave stand under it. Dave then began to punch his English teacher unconscious.
He walks out unaware that the men in the queue are nervous.
The newsagent's displays today newsworthy events. Someone in the village has won £2 million. The newsagent billboard has a big thumbs up and he makes his way to paper shop.
Mr Singh smiles at Dave. 'Morning, Dave.'
'Mornin'. ****in' freezing ain't it.' He puts the paper slip on the counter. 'Anywhere I can pay this off?
Mr Singh’s takes a look at the slip of paper. His hand scrambles for his glasses. He fumbles to get them on and stares at the paper. He mouths something. Mr Singh looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.
'Do you know what you've got here?' Mr Singh articulates in his best english.
'A ****ing Gas Bill.' Dave opens the door to the paper shop and spits outside, a green phlegmy snot ball; steam rising from it. He regards it melting the snow around it.
'It's two ****ing million pounds Dave.'
'Two ****in' million pounds? That's a lot of money. I could buy a racehorse with that.'
'You can buy 20 racehorses with that.'
'Sandra said it was the Gas Bill.'
'I saw Sandra walk into the Lion's Head half an hour ago with another bloke.'
Life has been simple for Dave until his first ever girlfriend. He works out the Math in his head. Dave points to the letter, 'Do us a favour. Look after that little ****er there, will yer.' He storms out of the shop.
'Excuse me, but are you a Mr...' A film crew surround Dave. A young woman with a microphone pushes a microphone in Dave's face. He rips it from her and throws it in the street. The camera is also thrown, this time under the wheels of a passing bus.
'**** off, you ****s!'
The reporter squeals, 'My ****ing Mic!'
Dave is off and making a line for the pub. The only pub in the village. It will be busy this morning as the dole money would be flowing.
Smoking men part to let Dave pass. Despite the new laws there is a ribbon of silver smoke above the optics. Sandra is nestled between two men one of whom is groping her breasts. She giggles and takes a gulp of her wine. As she does she notices Dave approach and stops. She lowers the glass and smiles. It falters and she attempts to make up an excuse.
'I got the job,' she says, the glimmer of a smile.
'I paid the ****ing Gas Bill off,' Dave says, 'Alright boys?' The men either side of her trade glances.
'Paid the gas bill?' Sandra asks.
'Yeah. It wasn't that ****in' much.'
'Where is it?'
'I binned the letter. Don't need it now, do I?'
Sandra stands and knocks the table of drinks over. Shouts of surprise and curses erupt. 'You ****ing docile twat! You don't ****ing understand what you've just done you ****!'
Understand? I don't understand? Dave fumbles for reason and loses. He punches Sandra square in the nose knocking her back into her seat. Blood flows in torrents and he attacks the two men.
The pub makes room for Dave as he continues to pummel the two men. The spectators nonchalantly drink and make passing comments on the blows Dave is making on the two men. A kick to the head and the barman who has his arms rested on the bar makes a similarity to a goal kick much to the agreement of other drinkers.
Sandra blares in the corner, a rag to her nose stemming the flow of bright red blood.
'Dave. Ahm sorry. Ahm sorry. Please...' She wails.
Dave pushes he back and she falls over the two dilapidated forms on the ground. He puts his Donkey Jacket back and says, ‘Greedy ****ing pigs.’ He walks out of the pub, scratches his balls and wonders what he'll do with £2million.