Ron and I went for a few pints the other night.
All differences have been forgiven and forgotten.
Ron and I have been pals for years. I am the quiet one. He is the one most likely to cause trouble.
He is the kind of bloke who will get a full pint of water in a pub, put a beermat over it, turn it upside down, put it on the counter and then whip the beermat away. He does it for the hell of it. We’ve been thrown out a few times for that one.
Anyway, we were having a few. It was a friendly night, but the cash ran low.
“Fancy one for the road?” says Ron.
“No cash” says I.
“Don’t worry about that” says he. “There are always ways and means…”
He called the manager over.
“Excuse me” says Ron “but my friend and I are having a bet. He says there are four pints in a quart, and I say there are three. Could you set us straight?”
The manager laughed. “Yiz are both wrong. There are two”. He went away.
Ron called the barman over.
“Same again” says he, “and it’s on the house.”
“Yiz are joking” says the barman. “No-one gets free pints here”
“Well, the manager just said we could. Hold on. I’ll clarify this” says Ron.
“How many pints did you say” he yelled at the manager.
“Two” the manager yelled back.
“Funny” says Ron to me, “but they always fall for it. Even after all these years”
“Cheers” says he as two fresh pints are placed in front of us.