Red rage to a Bull & Bell, Mr Blogsbody is barred for ever more
Father Mike, former church student at Ushaw College, Durham, and his 20-day-old baby Tome – Continuing Story of Cressroads, Watercress Capital of the World – are reported ‘well chuffed’ by messages of congratulations from around the UK, Canada and who-knows-where-next.
Not least Alresford’s Bell & Bull, where its Lady Cyn casts a seasoned eye over Blogsbody playing back news of her son Juliana barring the town hack from their mini-hotel’s dimly-lit wine bar for a most non-grievous act of public disorder.
“Mea culpa … mea maxima culpa,” fawned the lapsed Blogsbody. But in vain. Someone who quit a Papist seminary, left the Lord’s Prayer behind him and converted from the potentially sublime to the hellfire ridiculous.
Fleet Street of yesteryear, and for him to reveal HIS LORDSHIP WAS A LADY … expose Colin Jordan’s British Nazi Party … make his excuses, leave the vice dens of Soho and climb instead into bed with the Sunday toast crumbs of millions of red-top readers, excited to meditate on sundry Church of England properties turned profitable red-light houses.
“If I can tolerate you, why can’t the bar of the Bull & Bell?” questioned eminent microbiologist Dr Mikroscope.
“Because Blogsbody at his most profane has cussed the pub’s new tenants for excusing themselves from any need to post major changes to their morning opening hours. Effectively lock out the likes of a clutch of well-heeled ladies from Guildford and Romsey. And who I foundto have escorted around the corner of West Street to Broad Street’s Caracoli coffee house.”
“As you would. But before you were heard to swear, exactly what?” quizzed the eminent professor.
“Bull***t”
“And you’re telling me that Missus and Master Bull & Bell sodding well barred you for saying that?”
“Yup.”
”That’s not even Anglo-Saxon. Come on. Or are you bull*****ing me?”
“No, I ain’t,” swore Blogsbody.
Re. Bell & Bull: Lady Cyn’s postscript reads: ‘Well done - seems to be an awful lot of sour grapes - you’re not telling me anything I didn’t know. Oh well.’
After scanning the town hack’s reports of her Juliana hotfooting it across West Street with a large bouquet of Floral Paul’s finest to want to apologize to Scorch-the-Dragon-Lady for smoking in the Long Bar of her Swan Hotel.
Then, within earshot of a Filipino barmaid, for him to be overheard foul-mouthing the employment of ‘foreign workers’ – and, did Juliana but know it – as she counted down the hours to her undergoing surgery at the county hospital.
Seems some mums do have ‘em, Lady Cyn. And there those of your regular punters as well as ex-pinters, who reckon your son, in whom you may not be too well-pleased, is lucky to hold on to his innkeeper’s licence.
