….. but let’s leave off Chaucer for a moment-who was nay better nay worse than he might-Middle English Customs officer that he was. I’ll come back to him.
About a quarter of a century ago three German Crown Court judges did their best to impress upon me that “one just doesn’t simply wander into” a German court, plead ‘guilty’ to 3 counts of attempted murder and some small change (“armed robbery”, “carrying a concealed” and “Being a bit of a dick”), and then ‘get off’ with 2 years on probation more than once in a lifetime. That the ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card was a once only offer and the next court would be duty bound to send me away for a telephone number’s length at Kohl’s displeasure.
Now the brothers and sister of the dwarf may make me look like a goldfish in IQ terms with my merely ‘above average intelligence’, I am the idiot of the family but , as The Bestes Frau In The World’s people say ‘Nightingale I hear you galumphing about’. I saw the writing on the wall….of ‘Santa Fu’ (an infamous German prison), I got the message and wised up.
I curbed my daily drinking to a level that the average German might consider ‘reasonable’ (ie just under Kerouacian), I learned to control my IED and slowly over the years the desire to beat whatever fool, that I was currently being required to suffer, to a bloody pulp faded (although the Polizei remained under written orders to only approach me with their holsters unbuckled and their weapons chambered).
Most people these days who meet me would never guess I was a bit of tearaway in my younger days and assume that my mild gentle manner is but the result of advanced age, senilty and hearing loss.
But there are exceptions -I may no longer consider a Saturday night without a trip to A&E to have been ‘a bit boring’ nor do I know all the local coppers by name- but there are a few sorts of people who should avoid me if I ever start drinking again.
The first among the ‘idiots who will get a smack in the mouth come the revolution’ will be those frothy mouthed Brexiteurs who are also smokers and who will have the gall, the bare arsed cheek, to grizzle when a pack of tobacco costs £45 & we are limited to bringing back no more than a pouch from the EU (so some time next year I reckon).
That’s one for the future though, and it will be worth the prison time.
At the moment, and getting back finally to old Galfridum Chaucer, the people in my sober vicinity most likely require emergency dentistry are those people who say things like ‘but it’s good for the garden’ or ‘ the roses need it’.
FFS! You have a fucking tap in the kitchen, go buy a watering can. We live in ENGLAND. Enough fucking rain falls each winter to keep even the largest rain butt full all summer-even the summer of ’76 of blessed childhood memory ( I know because my parents had just such a water butt and even to this day Aged Mother Dwarf uses terms to describe it better fitting to a Papal Commisson on sainthood). My SAD was so bad this winter I had to go back on the 3-bicycle drugs (at least I assume that’s what ‘tri-cycle’ means). Finally we get half a day of what passes as ‘sunshine’ and you gardening fuckers can do nothing but wish for the rain back again?!?
Chaucer may have found the April rain ‘sweet smelling’ but he had had a drought in March, and the last time that happened must have been 660 years ago.
/rant (which I would have sent to the Raccoon for publication but she gets all upset when I swear…delicate little flower that she is.)
[This was a Guest Post by The Blocked Dwarf, in case you hadn’t guessed. GD]