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Corona quarantine diary
ناشر الموضوع: Mervyn Henderson

Michael Wetzel  Identity Verified
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Support request Dec 9, 2020

In addition to Kay's proposed LOL button, we clearly also need the "disapproving frown" button suggested by Chris. Mervyn's outrageous disablism has got my tighty whities into such a bunch that it's uncomfortable for me to sit down.

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Then let it all hang out! Dec 9, 2020

Michael Wetzel wrote:

In addition to Kay's proposed LOL button, we clearly also need the "disapproving frown" button suggested by Chris. Mervyn's outrageous disablism has got my tighty whities into such a bunch that it's uncomfortable for me to sit down.


#FreeWilly


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#FreeWilly Dec 9, 2020

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha! Splendid!

I saw the film years ago, but couldn't figure out what that ruddy orca had to do with it.

[Edited at 2020-12-09 13:22 GMT]


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Back to quarantine and @Barbara Dec 9, 2020

"Revenons à nos moutons, qui commencent à errer", as my dad used to say when we were getting a little off track during our French lessons when I had him as teacher for three or four years at school. The only language teacher who spoke nothing but the French and German he taught in his classes. I say this for the reflected glory, you understand!!

What I meant was, get back to the original Diary quarantine thing ...

I had thought the bars and stuff were going to open a
... See more
"Revenons à nos moutons, qui commencent à errer", as my dad used to say when we were getting a little off track during our French lessons when I had him as teacher for three or four years at school. The only language teacher who spoke nothing but the French and German he taught in his classes. I say this for the reflected glory, you understand!!

What I meant was, get back to the original Diary quarantine thing ...

I had thought the bars and stuff were going to open again today here after the daft - I know I've said it before, but, even though I might be a voice crying in the wilderness, I cannot emphasise this enough - the daft 6 + 8 December holidays, but no, not a one. The odd speakeasy has been uncovered, though! Apparently it's scheduled for this Saturday now.

BUT they're beginning to get cold feet in the Basque Government. Might be stringing it out a little longer now. But how long? I mean, do we have a binge between 20 and 25 December, then we close down until 2 January, or what? We have the failed example, of course, post-Thanksgiving in the US, of huge contagion rises two weeks on after all the travelling and revelling, and then you've got the same travelling and revelling thing coming up at Christmas and Noo Year. I must say, what with the thirsty hordes clamouring for bars and the bars clamouring for the thirsty hordes and the hospitals saying What, are you crazy?, I don't envy whoever has to make the choice.

Actually, it's not thirst. Thirst can be resolved with water, after all:

Think back to any western movie you've seen. Robert Mitchum, say, pushes open the swing doors and lumbers into the saloon: "And what would be your pleasure, sir?" says the barman. Robert grasps the bar with both hands and says, "Whiskey. Gimme whiskey, Goddammit." "Of course, sir," trills the barman, and pours him out a shot. He's about to turn around and put the bottle back, but Robert lays a hand on his arm. "Leave the bottle, Goddammit," growls the cowboy. "It's thirsty work killing Injuns. Real thirsty. Goddammit."

Thirst? Thirst has bog all to do with it. Whether you've been killing Injuns, or filling in your tax return, or dealing with the plumber, or arguing with a customer, thirst is the last thing on your mind when you get to the bar. It's psychological necessity.

And, that @Barbara: I recognise that stone. It stands out because of the volcanic, hexagonal blackness of all the rest. Wasn't it Voltaire who said the Giant's Causeway was worth seeing, but not worth actually going to see? A hell of a walk around the whole thing, it's got to be said (right, Tom?). More than once I had to take my dad's French and German visitors around it, so I know what I'm talking about. Perhaps you already know the legend of the giant concerned, Finn MacCool, so stop me if you've heard it before. Finn was pissed off with a Scottish giant one day, so he grabbed a lump of earth, but a lump of earth in giant's terms, and he flung it across the Irish Sea towards Scotland, but it fell short and dropped into the sea to form the Isle of Man, and in the process he also created Lough Neagh in central Northern Ireland, the UK's largest lake. Too far south, as well, probably the poteen disorientating him. But the shapes more or less match up if you look at them on the map.

See? It's not all Bond and Trump and Biden and Santa and Garmendia ...

[Edited at 2020-12-09 18:50 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-09 18:53 GMT]
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Pub crawl Dec 10, 2020

As of Saturday. The paper carries Those Measures in full. We still have those Nocturnal Movement Restrictions from 10 to 6 am, but not on 24 and 25 December or 31 December/1 January, when we can be out until 1.30 am. We can leave the Basque Country between 23 and 26 December, and between 30 December and 2 January. We can also leave our town of residence as of Saturday - ordinarily that would mean a huge rush to second homes, but since most Basques have their second residence across the regional ... See more
As of Saturday. The paper carries Those Measures in full. We still have those Nocturnal Movement Restrictions from 10 to 6 am, but not on 24 and 25 December or 31 December/1 January, when we can be out until 1.30 am. We can leave the Basque Country between 23 and 26 December, and between 30 December and 2 January. We can also leave our town of residence as of Saturday - ordinarily that would mean a huge rush to second homes, but since most Basques have their second residence across the regional line in Cantabria, the only second homes to be rushed to will be on the local coastline.

Definitely no Three Kings parades, groups of carol-singers, that kind of thing.

Bars can open from 6 am on Saturday (6 am!!) until 8 pm, no sitting at the bar, 50% capacity inside, and 100% outside. So it looks like there'll be a lot of wasted merrymakers wending their merry wasted way home by around 9.

I don't think they say anything about what happens after 2 January, but I have a fair idea. Same as up to now until around mid-January, when they can assess the inevitable damage done during Crimbo.

That was the main headline, and a stark warning by Basque President Urkullu: "We have to do things differently this Christmas because we're still in an emergency situation." The man's obviously been talking to the experts.

Down below we have another piece of news to enthrall us, sadden us, comfort us or incense us, depending how you look at it, concerning His Former Royal Highness Juanca I. Although the Highness bit went out the window long ago. JC's just paid out 678,000 euros to the taxman to prevent prosecution for fraud, just like any other citizen. 678. Does that sound like a number somebody made up? It did to me at first, but really it's 678,393.72 euros. What he owes on a million and a half or so, plus a pecuniary rap on the ex-rex knuckles for trying it on. Maybe it was just the thousands part they thought up at random.

This is only one of a few pecadilloes being investigated - next up is the 65 million euro gift to that troublesome erstwhile squeeze of his, the gorgeous pouting Corinna Larsen, she who would be queen, until Felipe VI got wind of her designs and as good as kicked her out of his realm. Not to mention a cool 10 million sitting around in an account in Jersey. Juanca denies the Jersey thing, though. If I were smart I'd offer to take the 10 million over for him on the quiet, pay the tax and the fine on it just like any other citizen, and I'd still be laughing, but I can't find his number. Must be ex-directory.



[Edited at 2020-12-10 12:52 GMT]
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The Man with the Golden Plum (final episode) Dec 11, 2020

No, no implausible "like James Bond" intro this time. Straight in. This is actually the last two episodes in one, so you can think of it as weekend reading matter. I doubled them up because I had to end it before it ended me. And I really had run out of title rhymes!! Plus, it's difficult to do this on such an ad hoc basis. I found the same thing with Little Translator. Lately I've had a lot of interference from Garmendias and Santa Clauses, as you know, and it was all getting too much. And I've... See more
No, no implausible "like James Bond" intro this time. Straight in. This is actually the last two episodes in one, so you can think of it as weekend reading matter. I doubled them up because I had to end it before it ended me. And I really had run out of title rhymes!! Plus, it's difficult to do this on such an ad hoc basis. I found the same thing with Little Translator. Lately I've had a lot of interference from Garmendias and Santa Clauses, as you know, and it was all getting too much. And I've got loads of blaargh to do, too!

An explanation is necessary. The first part, the escape from the island, isn't very good. I'm no Ian Fleming, and I'm well aware it's a little lacking. The second part, with Bond back at base, is more "me". Children should not be allowed to read the end, by the way. Strictly over-18s only. Rather risqué.

I knew I had to kill this thing when I realised Pussy's demise affected me emotionally, as much as it did 007 and 008. I maybe should have worked it out some other way, but that's the ad hoc problem again. I did think about bringing her back, like Bobby Ewing in the shower in "Dallas", but it would probably have caused more problems than it solved, and I'd never have finished this!

...


“Untie me, Jane!” I cried. 008 was still on her knees weeping beside the lifeless Phyllis. I knew she was gutted by what had happened, especially considering her harsh words to the girl previously, but I also knew we had to get going. “There’s nothing you can do for her now, and we’ve got work to do.”

"What are you going to say in your report, James? About Phyllis, I mean. We can't just ..."

I nodded. "What I will write in my report is that Phyllis Harrington was a brave operative playing a dangerous double-agent game on Her Majesty's Secret Service, and she paid the ultimate price, taking a bullet to save the lives of two agents in the field."

Jane gave me a little smile. "Of course she did."


I took the goons’ pistols, and a submachine gun one of them had slung around him too. We walked into the control room, and took a look at the panels. Yes, all those missiles were ready to fire in ten minutes’ time. I opened a wall-mounted cabinet. All different colours of wires. I took out my knife, remembering what Pussy had said: “Set up by a foreign power that spent most of the late 80s and 90s investing in hi tech. Impossible to disable anyway”. I considered the red wire. No, never cut the red wire. That’s one of the first things you learn in the service. But could it be a cunning ruse? Then I looked at the blue wire. Or was it the blue wire you never cut? And there was another blue wire, too, except it was light blue. Damn. And a green wire. Green for go? Green for no? And a yellow wire. Bloody hell, there was even a pink wire there as well. Not to mention a white wire. I was beginning to sweat as I considered my options. I thought of all those people depending on me in six cities:

Suddenly I heard a sharp crack, the overhead fluorescent tubes flickered, and then a dull ermmmmmmmm as the power went down. Goodbody was standing behind the main console with a plug in her hand.

“Sometimes the simplest solution is the best, James. I just unplugged it.”

I waited for the whole place to explode, but no, it seemed to be OK. So much for the hi tech of a foreign power. I took a look at the socket: “Made in Ireland. Quolity first.” By Jove, it looked like the potato-munchers were on our side for a change!

We made for the hangar, and I inspected the plane. If Scarawanga hadn’t taken it, he must have planned to escape by sea. I had a look for anything we could use. There was a thick block leaning against the wall, with cables attached. I’d seen that kind of device before. A plan was beginning to form in my brain. And it just might work …

With Jane at the controls, we were soon scouring the island for Scarawanga and his men. Just as I was finishing my work with the wires at the side of the plane, the wind rushing in at my face, she called out: “There they are, James, down on the beach!”

I looked down. Yes, him and four men, making for the shore, where a large speedboat was waiting. Jane banked and flew out over the bay. I took aim with the machine gun as we swept down, and riddled the boat and its three occupants with bullets. It exploded in a ball of fire. Now for Scarawanga. Jane banked again and took us down to the beach, where the four goons were running for cover. Scarawanga just stood there, staring up at us. I laughed as I blew the four gorillas away one at a time. The Man with the Golden Bum was alone now. He ran towards one of the bodies, probably to pick up a gun:

“Glide in again low, Jane!” I called. We swept down, and I was waiting until we got really close. Just as Scarawanga picked up a machine gun, I brought the two wires together. “Magnetising!” I grinned to myself.

And it worked like a charm. I saw Scarawanga suddenly bend at the knees, drop the gun, and fly up to the underside of the plane, where he thumped violently against the magnet, as Goodbody flew on towards the crater.

I’d found a bottle of champagne in the plane, and a glass or two. I removed one of the floor slats, and there was Scarawanga, crouched in mid-air with his arse held by the huge industrial magnet.

“Bottoms up, you might say,” I called to him, raising my glass as he turned his head.

“Bond! You … why aren’t you dead, you fiend? You’ll never get away with this!” he roared.

“Oh, I thought I’d … Die Another Day, if you get my drift,” I quipped. “And as for never getting away with it, Never Say Never Again, that’s my motto. Not to say You Only Live Twice.”

“Where’s Pussy Zero?” he screeched.

“She sold you out, Scarawanga. She came back home. And your men killed her for it. But she took care of them before she died.”

He laughed a bitter laugh. “That degenerate whore! Die like a man, did she?”

Oh, now that was unnecessary. So unnecessary. I laughed as well ...

“But I am going to get away with it, Scarawanga. Along with 008 here. On Her Majesty’s Secret Service too. Yes, Scarawanga. 008’s at the controls. The Spy Who Loved Me. Many times. And now, Scarawanga,” I added, looking out the window at the mountain we were fast approaching, “I do believe we have A View To A Kill here. We’ve disabled your system, Mr Scarawanga, so no Russky dosh. And, in about ten seconds … nine, eight … no way of spending it even if you had it … seven, six ...”

“The crater’s straight ahead, James, but we’re almost out of fuel!” cried Goodbody from the controls. And I was almost out of film titles ...

I did a rapid visual calculation, waiting: “ … three, two, one … demagnetising!”

I pulled the wires apart and waved as he fell down, down towards the huge crater, kicking and screaming. “This is Skyfall, Scarawanga. Live And Let Die!” I bawled above the roar of the engines. I rushed back to join Goodbody at the controls, just as the engine was beginning to conk out, and managed to glide us down for a rather rough landing in a meadow. We couldn’t use the plane any more, but I radioed in for a lift. Due to bad weather, they wouldn’t be able to take us out until morning. But it was a good spot to bed down in the fuselage with Jane:

“How romantic, James. Just look at that little mountain over there,” she trilled.

“Not actually a mountain, 008. It’s man-made, a tumulus, also known as a barrow. Or a burial mound. There are hundreds of them on this island, and loads of them all over the world. Attila the Hun was buried in this kind of thing, for example. But now I’ve got to go and get us some food, so sit tight.”

It was time to roll out my well-honed survival techniques. I quickly made a fire, found and killed a sheep, skinned it, and cooked it over a spit. I turned the pelt inside out, and Jane climbed into it as a sleeping bag. Just one of the many little tricks I’d learned on manoeuvres with the SAS. Ah, the SAS! They had muscles in their spit, those men. Tough brutes, but they made me a tough brute too during their nightmarish training stints. I remember the colonel turning to me just before I made a parachute jump completely naked into the wilds of Borneo, infested with wild animals and poisonous snakes, in sub-zero temperatures:

“Here’s your survival equipment, lad,” he spat, holding out a box of Swan Vestas. I reached for them, but he threw the box down on the floor of the transport plane, pulled down his zip, and pissed all over it. “Don’t forget your matches, Bond,” he guffawed as he zipped himself up again. “We’ll pick you up in a month at this location. If you’re still alive, that is.”

I killed another sheep to make a sleeping bag for myself. Then I killed a wolf, spearing its throat with a long stick I’d whittled down to a sharp point, just as it leapt at me slavering, with fangs bared. I caught a wild boar in a trap I’d set, and ran it through with the same stick. I was just going off to find another wolf, too, when Goodbody asked me to leave it at that, and she was right, because by that stage I was simply killing for the fun of it. The thing is, when you’ve been doing this as long as I have, once the smell of blood hits your nostrils, it’s difficult to hold back. So, our bellies full of roast mutton, we settled down for the night, and poor, tired, heroic, darling Jane fell asleep in my arms. I noticed tears in her eyes as she drifted off. Pussy Zero …

I was awoken by a hand on my chest. Fingers stroking it softly. The hand moved down. Down further. A little further. When it reached my navel, I sighed “Jane, baby, that feels so good.” There was no response, but the hand began to stroke me gently. A growl escaped me. “In the mood for love, are we, Jane?” But there was no answer. I listened. Just normal breathing beside me. I suddenly realised it was my own hand. Oh well …

We awoke to the fla-fla-fla-fla-fla of the helicopter overhead …


The following night I was waiting back in room 476, in happy anticipation of Jane’s arrival. I only had a T-shirt and boxers on, and I was already quite aroused at the prospect of a serious debriefing session with the delectable 008. I checked the spyhole when room service knocked at the door. My eyes narrowed as I let him in, searching my memory. This man looked rather familiar … oh yes, I knew who it was all right …

The chap wheeled in his trolley, stood behind it, and looked up. “Good evening, sir, this is …”. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed too, and then opened again as he finally remembered. “I know you, don’t I? … Aaah, ah yes,” he smiled. “I recognise you now. From the club. The man who doesn’t know whether he wants his Martinis shaken and stirred, or unshaken and unstirred.” He chuckled a little. “They fired me from that place, you know. Said my sense of humour didn’t go down too well with the customers.”

I surveyed him icily. “You don’t say.”

“Yes, but luckily I got this job almost right away. One of the room service lads here went AWOL yesterday.” He looked at the ticket. “Bond, isn’t it? Yes, a bottle of Krug for Bond. J … Bond … J Bond …”

A slight giggle escaped him, and I could see his shoulders heaving a little.

“Something amusing you, sonny?” I asked him coldly.

He threw his head back a little and giggled some more. “It’s just that … the name … J Bond … it sounds like a kind of adhesive, superglue or something.”

I stared at him.

He peered over my shoulder into the room as he lifted up the bottle to show to me. “Oh, nobody around. So, on our own tonight, are we, Mr Bond …?” He tittered again. “Looks like there IS going to be some manual Bonding around here later. Not to mention a considerable amount of shaking and stirring,” whereupon his amusement gave way to a hearty laugh.

I said nothing, just kept staring at him, fingers flexing behind my back. Suddenly his eyes opened wide as a thought seemed to strike him: “Would you like me to get another half dozen glasses for you, Mr Bond?” he enquired with a stupid grin.

“Half a dozen glasses? What the hell would I need half a dozen glasses for?”

He nodded down at my frontage. “Well, it’s just it looks like Madam Palm and her five sisters might be making their appearance any minute now.” I could feel my hands tense, but now my face was a mask. I laughed a strangled laugh at his last little joke, and looked out left and right into the corridor behind him. Nobody around …

“Ha-ha, well, come along then, step lively, in you come, lad”, I beamed, letting him past and following him into the room, whereupon the smile dropped and a stony-faced killer’s fingers flexed three or four times in anticipation. “Can you just leave it over there, yes, that’s right, thanks ever so, yes, just next to the wardrobe, that’ll be the handiest, yes, …”

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I opened it, and little 008 appeared in a fur coat. She closed the door behind her, and made for the wardrobe as she unbuttoned the garment.

I called out hastily: “No, Jane, darling, not the wardrobe. Chock-a-block with my stuff, you see … it’s the last time I use Marriott’s, I can tell you. There’s never enough space,” I explained. “Just put it over a chair or something, or anywhere at all, will you?”

She nodded, and once more I watched in awe as a gorgeous woman simply dropped her overcoat on the floor of the room. There she was in her heels, and nothing else but a see-through negligee. It looked like we could skip the debriefing. Jane sidled slowly over to me with her hands on her hips:

“See anything you like, James?” she gushed. “Do you know, I’ve discovered something. I have a tumulus too.” My eyebrows rose at that one. Certain other parts of me had already made a start on the rising as she was gliding across to me. “Oh, you know, 007 …” she went on, pressing against me with her hands on my shoulders, those pink chapel hatpegs grinding hard into my chest, and dark damp curls rasping against my leg through the fine material, “ … a tumulus. A burial mound, like you said. Or a barrow. Except this mound of mine doesn’t have anything buried in it. What an awful, terrible shame. A crying shame ...” One hand moved softly down, down, down my chest, and she moved in closer. Much closer. A whole lot closer. “… crying, oh yes. Look, James, my bereaved mound is weeping ahead of the burial. Do you know, 007, this must be what they call role reversal.”

“Er, role reversal, Goodbody?” I queried, breathing hard. She smiled the most wanton of smiles:

“Yes, James. Role reversal. The stiffmaker made stiff.” Those big blue eyes opened wider than wide as they looked deep into mine. Then a husky voice whispered ever so faintly in my ear: “Is this something we could bury in my mound, James? Would you like to be in on my burial detail, Mr Bond? With a rough ride around in a barrow afterwards, perhaps? You spent last night in a plane fuselage, so …” - her voice was hoarser than hoarse now – “how about hunkering down in a cockpit tonight with this joystick of yours? … You aren’t going to make me beg, are you, James? Are you? Oh, you are, aren’t you? … Do I really have to go down on my knees to beg you? Oh my, yes, it looks like I’ll simply have to … ”

I gave a very low growl, smiled and shrugged my shoulders at a fourth wall as Goodbody half-closed her eyes, licked her upper lip and knelt down in front of me, rapidly turning into the deliciously lewd vamp and insatiable sex machine I, and I only, knew so well. Lord, she certainly was a little tramp. But she was my little tramp.

And I was Bond. I was Bond all right. Jane’s Bond ...


THE END


[Edited at 2020-12-11 07:42 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-11 10:07 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-11 10:11 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-12-11 10:15 GMT]
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Fleming Nora! Dec 11, 2020

Never read Ian Fleming's oeuvre, but I don't need to waste my time on him, since we do have you: Made in Ireland. Quolity first – you can well say that.

Thank you very much indeed, Mervyn, what a great romp!


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Thanks ... Dec 11, 2020

... PLF. Phew. Now I've got the weekend off!

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Excellent stuff Dec 11, 2020

Well done, Mervyn.

I was half-expecting Phyllis to be revealed as Phallus at some point, but I'm wondering now whether that came up, so to speak, in an earlier episode or just one of my better dreams.

And now back to bonds of the treasury kind...


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Thanks Dec 11, 2020

... Chris. Yes, in an earlier episode. At that finishing school in Geneva.

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Duh Dec 11, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

... Chris. Yes, in an earlier episode. At that finishing school in Geneva.

Ah, yes. I did think it unlikely you’d miss something that stuck out so obviously.

That’s the thing with binge-watching box sets. I’ve lost the ability to remember what happened last week, let alone last series.


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Memory Dec 12, 2020

Chris, I have exactly the same problem. I watched Homeland obsessively a few years ago, and in the end I couldn't keep track of Carrie and Co. It might be the mind-expanding substances I used to use (abuse, rather) - and I can't stress the "used to" enough, but I think it's just age creeping up on me.

But I have to leave you now, because a nice young lady with a starched apron stretched unnecessarily tight has arrived to change my nappy and wash me all over in my bath chair. The tri
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Chris, I have exactly the same problem. I watched Homeland obsessively a few years ago, and in the end I couldn't keep track of Carrie and Co. It might be the mind-expanding substances I used to use (abuse, rather) - and I can't stress the "used to" enough, but I think it's just age creeping up on me.

But I have to leave you now, because a nice young lady with a starched apron stretched unnecessarily tight has arrived to change my nappy and wash me all over in my bath chair. The trials and titillations of growing old ...
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Alcohol avalanche Dec 12, 2020

Streets relatively free of cars this Saturday morning in Bilbao, but terraces full and bars 50% full as the city's watering holes restored libationary freedom, but only until 8 pm this evening. An overcast sky did nothing to dampen locals' enthusiasm as they sat around quaffing beer and wine at midday with gay abandon.

Experts in shorter drinking timelines following long periods of public deprivation, however, warned of the possible consequences - initial good spirits, but necessar
... See more
Streets relatively free of cars this Saturday morning in Bilbao, but terraces full and bars 50% full as the city's watering holes restored libationary freedom, but only until 8 pm this evening. An overcast sky did nothing to dampen locals' enthusiasm as they sat around quaffing beer and wine at midday with gay abandon.

Experts in shorter drinking timelines following long periods of public deprivation, however, warned of the possible consequences - initial good spirits, but necessarily amid a high non-staggered concentration of patrons in small spaces, which would fuel a great deal of elbowing, jostling, spillages, breakages, shouting at waiters, shouting at customers, shouting at family and friends, shouting at no one in particular, shouting at other people shouting, threats, scuffles, fights, and inevitably widespread pavement pizzas, marriage crises and severed friendships by the end of the evening - but added it was much too early to say.
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expressisverbis
Chris S
P.L.F.Persio
Zibow Retailleau
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
أسبانيا
Local time: 13:10
إسباني إلى أنجليزي
+ ...
بادئ الموضوع
Me best mate - update Dec 12, 2020

A one-man investigative team ventured out in the early evening today to gauge the effects of the reopening of bars in Bilbao. The team noticed that in the bar around the corner there were only two people sitting at the tables under the shades on the terrace, but that the bar had more tables inside than before, and had cunningly got round the no-bar-standing rule by placing higher tables and chairs right next to it. The team was about to ask the barman for his thoughts on this red-letter day in t... See more
A one-man investigative team ventured out in the early evening today to gauge the effects of the reopening of bars in Bilbao. The team noticed that in the bar around the corner there were only two people sitting at the tables under the shades on the terrace, but that the bar had more tables inside than before, and had cunningly got round the no-bar-standing rule by placing higher tables and chairs right next to it. The team was about to ask the barman for his thoughts on this red-letter day in the Bilbao calendar, but an impromptu interview ensued instead with a very large red-faced man all on his own, leaning on the bar with a glass of Patxaran in his hand, clearly against regulations.

He initiated the interview himself as follows, transcribed as best we could:

"Hey, you, yes, you, you're me best mate, mate, best mate, you are, what you want, you want a Patxaran, you want ...? whatever you want, me best mate, really, sorry, mate, really sorry, long day, sorry, you're me best mate, what you want, then ...?"

At this point his phone rang, and he said, "Ssshh, 's the wife, don't worry, mate, you're me best ... what? what? where am I? what you mean?, I'm here, here, here I am, I'm with me best mate, here with me best mate, ... wass your name, pal ...? ... what you mean, I don't have no mates ... oh, sure, the kids, the kids, always on to me about the kids, you are ... what? ... right, your mother, of course. Don't tell me about your mother, always your bloody mother, d'you think I give a a single shit about your ... when? when? when, you say? ... let me tell you this, love, I'll be home when I'm good and ready ... and I want cod in peppers, got it, cod, better be cod there when I get back, see."

He terminated the conversation at that point, and then said: " ... so what you want? We got plenty of time, don't worry about her indoors. Whiskey, gin, whatever, Patxaran, nothing's too good for me best mate, me best ... I'd do anything for me best mate, anything ... in fact ..." he said, swatting at a man's arm as he passed by, and then jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the gentleman heading for the toilet behind him, " ... say if that guy, yes, that guy there, that bloke that just bumped into me, if that bastard, or anyone else, said so much as a word ... so much as a WORD ...," he repeated, staring glassily into the eyes of the team, "to me best mate ... I'd do him, I would. Straight up. I'd do him. Swear to God and hope to die. Look, sign of the Cross and all. Nothing's too good for me best mate."

When asked whether he was concerned that his location at the counter might be flaunting the rules recently implemented regarding bars in the Basque Country, his attitude changed, however:

"You ... you what? Me? Me break the rules? What ... what? But ... aren't you ...? you're me best mate ... mates don't ask that kind of thing. Who ... who you think you fucking are, bodger? You don't even know me ... Adam, don't know me from Adam, you're no mate of mine, no mate, what ...?

At this point the glass of Patxaran fell and smashed on the floor. The team thought this might be a good time to end the interview, thanked the barman hurriedly for his time, and left.
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expressisverbis
Matthias Brombach
P.L.F.Persio
Zibow Retailleau
 

Matthias Brombach  Identity Verified
ألمانيا
Local time: 13:10
عضو (2007)
هولندي إلى ألماني
+ ...
The one ... Dec 13, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

"You ... you what? Me? Me break the rules? What ... what?


... who speaks the truth needs a fast horse.


Mervyn Henderson
P.L.F.Persio
 
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