contemptible place.”
“And there was a woman there?”
“No women allowed, matey! I wish there had been. Atmosphere was like a funeral.”
“Somebody died?”
“Government was about to bring in their bloody Nazi smoking ban. Old Harry here finds himself at their final cigar dinner. Champagne, cigar, soup, cigar, white wine, cigar, main course
with several different reds, cigar, pudding, cigar, dessert wine, cigar, port, more port and another bloody cigar.” The barman took an order, nodding to Christmas that he was still listening.
“So there we were, drunk as priests in this old panelled dining room stared at by endless portraits of droopy-eyed toffs and I had the misfortune to be sat next to some old boy who had long
forgotten how to use consonants. Couldn’t understand a bloody word. He joined in the toasts all right, but beyond that – ooo-uuu-aaa-ooo-aaa – completely incomprehensible. Anyway
for some reason the old bugger took a shine to me and after we left the dining room I couldn’t shake him, mumbling into my ear about Tony-bloody-Blair or something – anyway I tended to
nod and say yes and he seemed so over the moon that somebody was finally agreeing with him he insisted I come back to his house in Pimlico and crack open a special reserve ’59 he’d been
saving—”
“One minute, please.” The barman served some more customers, then returned to Christmas.
“Now then, due to circumstances I shan’t go into, I didn’t actually own my own place any more, so I thought, ‘Why not? – do the old bugger a favour.’ Of
course he hadn’t said ‘Pimlico’, he’d said ‘my place in Plymouth, shall we go?’ but without most of the bloody consonants – well, suffice it to say he had
a Daimler outside with his chauffeur. I got in, passed out, woke up near bloody Plymouth! Quite a shock I can tell you, and by the time I’d worked out what had gone on, there we were,
pootling up the drive to this bloody great pile, dogs, staff, the whole caboodle. I’m shown to an extremely comfortable guest room, the old boy insists I stay the weekend, won’t take no
for an answer, and so I say to myself, why the devil not, eh Christmas, why the devil not?
Anyway, turns out I’m not the only guest. He’s got his goddaughter staying there – Diana, about my age, not bad looking in a country sort of way. Sand bags and glad rags. Lots
of teeth – you know the type. Well, you probably don’t, but anyway I could tell she took a shine to old Harry right from the off. So I told her I was a widower – true – and
a big shot in the media – not so true. Didn’t take much to convince – just acted like a complete cunt and made a couple of loud phone calls to no one about ‘the
project’ and how ‘Woody and I’ were going to ‘hump the money pig’ – you know, all that bollocks. Well, you probably don’t, but it worked a treat. Kept the
old boy happy of course, agreed with every damn thing he was saying even though he could have been reciting Eskimo poetry for all I know, and pretty soon I could tell he was telling her what a fine
chap I was, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if the crafty bugger hadn’t brought me down with his goddaughter in mind. Hubby had popped his clogs a few years back and as far as I could
tell she was rather fond of the good life and was sick of waiting around for the old man to do the decent thing and croak. Bottom line: she was on the look-out for a man with the readies to take
care of her, i.e. yours truly.” Christmas finished his drink and tapped it on the side for another. The barman filled his glass.
“A weekend became a week, the weeks became months and pretty soon we were back in London living at hers. I’d kept up the bollocks about my glittering career, how I didn’t have
a house because I’d just sold mine to George Michael etcetera, arranged a couple of people I know to drop by, or bump into us in the street, talk business and what have
“And there was a woman there?”
“No women allowed, matey! I wish there had been. Atmosphere was like a funeral.”
“Somebody died?”
“Government was about to bring in their bloody Nazi smoking ban. Old Harry here finds himself at their final cigar dinner. Champagne, cigar, soup, cigar, white wine, cigar, main course
with several different reds, cigar, pudding, cigar, dessert wine, cigar, port, more port and another bloody cigar.” The barman took an order, nodding to Christmas that he was still listening.
“So there we were, drunk as priests in this old panelled dining room stared at by endless portraits of droopy-eyed toffs and I had the misfortune to be sat next to some old boy who had long
forgotten how to use consonants. Couldn’t understand a bloody word. He joined in the toasts all right, but beyond that – ooo-uuu-aaa-ooo-aaa – completely incomprehensible. Anyway
for some reason the old bugger took a shine to me and after we left the dining room I couldn’t shake him, mumbling into my ear about Tony-bloody-Blair or something – anyway I tended to
nod and say yes and he seemed so over the moon that somebody was finally agreeing with him he insisted I come back to his house in Pimlico and crack open a special reserve ’59 he’d been
saving—”
“One minute, please.” The barman served some more customers, then returned to Christmas.
“Now then, due to circumstances I shan’t go into, I didn’t actually own my own place any more, so I thought, ‘Why not? – do the old bugger a favour.’ Of
course he hadn’t said ‘Pimlico’, he’d said ‘my place in Plymouth, shall we go?’ but without most of the bloody consonants – well, suffice it to say he had
a Daimler outside with his chauffeur. I got in, passed out, woke up near bloody Plymouth! Quite a shock I can tell you, and by the time I’d worked out what had gone on, there we were,
pootling up the drive to this bloody great pile, dogs, staff, the whole caboodle. I’m shown to an extremely comfortable guest room, the old boy insists I stay the weekend, won’t take no
for an answer, and so I say to myself, why the devil not, eh Christmas, why the devil not?
Anyway, turns out I’m not the only guest. He’s got his goddaughter staying there – Diana, about my age, not bad looking in a country sort of way. Sand bags and glad rags. Lots
of teeth – you know the type. Well, you probably don’t, but anyway I could tell she took a shine to old Harry right from the off. So I told her I was a widower – true – and
a big shot in the media – not so true. Didn’t take much to convince – just acted like a complete cunt and made a couple of loud phone calls to no one about ‘the
project’ and how ‘Woody and I’ were going to ‘hump the money pig’ – you know, all that bollocks. Well, you probably don’t, but it worked a treat. Kept the
old boy happy of course, agreed with every damn thing he was saying even though he could have been reciting Eskimo poetry for all I know, and pretty soon I could tell he was telling her what a fine
chap I was, in fact I wouldn’t be surprised if the crafty bugger hadn’t brought me down with his goddaughter in mind. Hubby had popped his clogs a few years back and as far as I could
tell she was rather fond of the good life and was sick of waiting around for the old man to do the decent thing and croak. Bottom line: she was on the look-out for a man with the readies to take
care of her, i.e. yours truly.” Christmas finished his drink and tapped it on the side for another. The barman filled his glass.
“A weekend became a week, the weeks became months and pretty soon we were back in London living at hers. I’d kept up the bollocks about my glittering career, how I didn’t have
a house because I’d just sold mine to George Michael etcetera, arranged a couple of people I know to drop by, or bump into us in the street, talk business and what have
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