Saturday, 14 November 2015


This is 'Stuart somebody or other'. That's my tankard he's holding and I want it back. If you see him, do let him know that regardless of whether he returns my property or not, I'm going to bang him on the clavicle with the pommel of my Smatchet. That's not a threat, as I fully expect the action outlined in the statement to take place, but I can't actually promise it, so I'm hedging my bets to a certain extent. If it’s in my power, I will totally Smatch him. Because I really miss that tankard. And all that it represents. 

What it mainly represents is continuity. That tankard has hung behind the bar of my local pub for the last nine years. I may not go in the pub every day, or even every week, but, when I do, the tankard is there, and Brian the landlord has it filled with Bacardi before I’ve unzipped my anorak. Post-crisis, I will make my way to that pub. It will be a pilgrimage, of sorts. If the pub is still open, and a type of life still goes on, I shall enjoy a drink from my tankard and think that, no matter how bad things might be elsewhere, there is always this place, this drink, this moment, an oasis of pre in the post, a parcel of the past.

If the pub is closed, or if Bob’s naked body is nailed to the door, even if the place has been burned to the ground, I will retrieve my tankard, bloodied or blackened though it may be, and take it with me on my onward journey. Then the tankard would serve as a relic of a time never to return, a world that is lost to us all for all time. It would hold no Bacardi, then, only a thin, colourless gruel made from things that we would have previously jet washed from the drive. Every sip would be a stark reminder of how low we had been laid but at least I'd have my memories - and my tankard. 

So, yes, it meant something, Stuart whoever, you dirty thief, you robber of dreams, and I will have my revenge upon you and yours and theirs. Enjoy your beer, fucker! 

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