Tales from the Connie Club
I have an alternative lieu d’ecriture today. Instead of residing at my trusty dining table with scenic views of my back garden, I’m penning this narrative at the domain of my mater and pater.
Sat at their dining table, I’m greeted with equally agreeable views, along with several interruptions of my mum (Maggie) asking “Do you want a cuppa, love?” and “I hope you’re not using the word bollocks in that blog, Gary!”
Maggie is a welcoming host, affording a warm welcome to all and sundry, however the number of times she asks if I want a mug of tea is starting to become distracting. If I said yes to every query I’d spend half of my visit rehydrating with char, with the rest of the time spent at the toilet peeing for England.
I really should go outside and cut my dad’s lawns, but with the grey sky and stiff breeze obdurately maintaining a presence outside my enthusiasm for the task isn’t at a premium.
My pater (Mally) is sat watching the horse racing to see if his ‘Lucky 15’ bet bears fruit, or more importantly make him rich. When I say rich, I mean keeps him in beer money at his local Conservative club.
When he joined the club 20+ years back his subscriptions were £3 a year, but he was given £5 in beer tokens on enrolling. So fundamentally they were paying him £2 a year to be a member! All he had to do was pledge allegiance to a bust of former Tory MP Edwina Currie.
When I say bust I don’t mean statue of her head, I’m referring to one of her breasts. The committees thinking behind the unorthodox enrolment ritual being if a prospective member is prepared to do that they must genuinely be Tories.
Mally isn’t a Conservative (Tory), like most in the former coal mining village he lives in I’d proffer. However, when you’re paying 17 pence for a pint your principles can easily be bought and he deemed the initiation worthwhile.
There is a famous saying by philosopher Barry Chuckle that “If you only pay 17 pence for a pint of beer you can get pissed very cheaply!” Dad doesn’t tend to imbibe much beer these days, but when he wore a younger mans clothes he no doubt would have put that piece of philosophy to the test.
He puts his diminishing thirst for beer down to old age, along with the fact he is too full of liquid with all the chuffing cups of tea my mum makes him!
As I bring this narrative to a conclusion, I can hear Mally in the living room shouting “Go on get your arse in gear you lazy get!”….. Either his horse isn’t doing very well, or he has developed a very abrupt way of getting Maggie to make him a cuppa!
Is there a moral behind this everyday tale of family tea intake, bizarre Tory initiation rituals and philosophy from one of the Chuckle Brothers?…. Is there bollocks!! …… Oops, sorry mum I’ve just inadvertently used the b word!