‘Cream and sugar. Kill the taste of this lousy tea. Bloody English tea.’ He snorted contemptuously, ‘Ugh, lousy lousy.’
‘British tea,’ corrected Charles out of habit. ‘Why d’you buy the stuff then?’
‘Who knows?’ The landlord bit off a chunk of bread and munched happily.
‘John,’ said Charles, ‘this is the finest sausage I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Back home,’ replied John, mouth filled with salami, ‘back home this is only average.’ He drank some tea. ‘Charles you should go to my country sometime. Food!’ his eyes widened. ‘Ha! In England you oil the machine that right?’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full man. You remind me of old Jackson up the stair,’ said Charles.
‘He pay me every Wednesday. Every Wednesday never misses.’
‘What’s that got to do with his eating habits? Every time I talk to him when we’re eating I can’t see my tea for his dinner floating around in my cup.’
‘Ah plenty rent no manners,’ the landlord shrugged his shoulders, ‘How bad?’
‘You are all business John, all business,’ Charles shook his head slowly.
‘All business!’ cried the landlord. ‘All business? Eat my sausage and pay me nothing.’ Joranski jumped to his feet. ‘You shout business to me!’
‘Take it easy man.’
‘Easy? If I’m business you’d be in Euston Station, dossing with dossers. Come on get more tea Scotchman.’
‘Get it yourself you immigrant bastard,’ answered Charles in anger.
‘Immigrant bastard?’ repeated John. ‘Get the tea! Get a job! Comb your hair and get it cut and a bath. Come on get some rent money for me,’ he bellowed pounding his chest with a slice of bread.
‘Just gave you nine quid man. What you on about?’
‘Fifteen I want. Five weeks at three is fifteen plus two and six for this food.’ John thumped his table and sat down. ‘You think I’m daft Scotchman. You come and tap me for the money by Sunday morning I know.’
‘You just told me to ask if I needed it for God’s sake.’
‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he whacked his forehead with his hand. ‘Right Scotchman I get the tea.’ He stood up again.
‘That’s okay John,’ Charles got to his feet, ‘I’ll go for it.’
‘Sit!’ bawled the landlord, brandishing the bread knife. ‘I cut your bloody head off.’
‘Okay you get the bloody tea then,’ Charles sat down.
‘Lazy lazy dossing Scotch bastard. Come on why don’t you go home?’
‘This is my home, Joranski. Thought you were getting the tea Daddy?’
The landlord snorted, ‘My son would not be like you.’
He went through to the kitchen and returned with the teapot.
‘No,’ he continued, ‘I throw him out if he is like you.’
Charles said nothing.
‘Come on. Take some more sausage. Plenty cheese.’
‘Thanks.’ Charles cut a slice and passed it to John.
The landlord bit a chunk and grinned, ‘Old Jackson won’t eat sausage. I offer him many times but he says no. Garlic.’
‘Yeah garlic,’ agreed Charles, ‘course he’s English.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded John, ‘he’s English.’
Both men finished and began clearing the table.
‘Well?’ asked Mr Joranski, ‘You going to buy me some beer now?’
‘Okay! With pleasure. Come.’
An old pub near the Angel
Charles wakened at 9.30 a.m. and wasted no time in dressing. Good God it’s about time for spring surely. Colder than it was yesterday though and I’ll have to wash and shave today. Must. The face has yellow lines. I can’t wear socks today. Impossibility. People notice smells although they say nothing.
Think I will do a moonlight tonight, I mean five weeks’ rent? He has cause for complaint. Humanity. A touch of humanity is required. He has fourteen tenants paying around £3.00 each for those poxy wee rooms, surely he can afford to let me off paying once in a while. One of his longest-serving tenants. Man I’ve even been known to clean my room on occasion with no thought of rent reduction.
Still he did take
‘British tea,’ corrected Charles out of habit. ‘Why d’you buy the stuff then?’
‘Who knows?’ The landlord bit off a chunk of bread and munched happily.
‘John,’ said Charles, ‘this is the finest sausage I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Back home,’ replied John, mouth filled with salami, ‘back home this is only average.’ He drank some tea. ‘Charles you should go to my country sometime. Food!’ his eyes widened. ‘Ha! In England you oil the machine that right?’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full man. You remind me of old Jackson up the stair,’ said Charles.
‘He pay me every Wednesday. Every Wednesday never misses.’
‘What’s that got to do with his eating habits? Every time I talk to him when we’re eating I can’t see my tea for his dinner floating around in my cup.’
‘Ah plenty rent no manners,’ the landlord shrugged his shoulders, ‘How bad?’
‘You are all business John, all business,’ Charles shook his head slowly.
‘All business!’ cried the landlord. ‘All business? Eat my sausage and pay me nothing.’ Joranski jumped to his feet. ‘You shout business to me!’
‘Take it easy man.’
‘Easy? If I’m business you’d be in Euston Station, dossing with dossers. Come on get more tea Scotchman.’
‘Get it yourself you immigrant bastard,’ answered Charles in anger.
‘Immigrant bastard?’ repeated John. ‘Get the tea! Get a job! Comb your hair and get it cut and a bath. Come on get some rent money for me,’ he bellowed pounding his chest with a slice of bread.
‘Just gave you nine quid man. What you on about?’
‘Fifteen I want. Five weeks at three is fifteen plus two and six for this food.’ John thumped his table and sat down. ‘You think I’m daft Scotchman. You come and tap me for the money by Sunday morning I know.’
‘You just told me to ask if I needed it for God’s sake.’
‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he whacked his forehead with his hand. ‘Right Scotchman I get the tea.’ He stood up again.
‘That’s okay John,’ Charles got to his feet, ‘I’ll go for it.’
‘Sit!’ bawled the landlord, brandishing the bread knife. ‘I cut your bloody head off.’
‘Okay you get the bloody tea then,’ Charles sat down.
‘Lazy lazy dossing Scotch bastard. Come on why don’t you go home?’
‘This is my home, Joranski. Thought you were getting the tea Daddy?’
The landlord snorted, ‘My son would not be like you.’
He went through to the kitchen and returned with the teapot.
‘No,’ he continued, ‘I throw him out if he is like you.’
Charles said nothing.
‘Come on. Take some more sausage. Plenty cheese.’
‘Thanks.’ Charles cut a slice and passed it to John.
The landlord bit a chunk and grinned, ‘Old Jackson won’t eat sausage. I offer him many times but he says no. Garlic.’
‘Yeah garlic,’ agreed Charles, ‘course he’s English.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded John, ‘he’s English.’
Both men finished and began clearing the table.
‘Well?’ asked Mr Joranski, ‘You going to buy me some beer now?’
‘Okay! With pleasure. Come.’
An old pub near the Angel
Charles wakened at 9.30 a.m. and wasted no time in dressing. Good God it’s about time for spring surely. Colder than it was yesterday though and I’ll have to wash and shave today. Must. The face has yellow lines. I can’t wear socks today. Impossibility. People notice smells although they say nothing.
Think I will do a moonlight tonight, I mean five weeks’ rent? He has cause for complaint. Humanity. A touch of humanity is required. He has fourteen tenants paying around £3.00 each for those poxy wee rooms, surely he can afford to let me off paying once in a while. One of his longest-serving tenants. Man I’ve even been known to clean my room on occasion with no thought of rent reduction.
Still he did take
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