A Further Five Minutes in the Car

“…The Sat-Nav said we should have gone right back there.”
“I know. Unfortunately our GPS is so old it was unaware that there is no longer a road to turn onto. It’s all changed. I’m following the signs.”
“Shame you can’t do that in bed!”
“Oh, not that again. Look, I told you, I was distracted. I had something in my ear.”
“You very nearly weren’t the only one!”
“I apologised at the time.”
“You know the kind of damage something the size of a cotton-bud being thrust into the ear can do don’t you… Remind me, why are we going to Hemel Hempstead?”
“To see my aunty.”
“Yes, you said that, so remind me again, why are we going to Hemel Hempstead?”
“Look, I know she’s not your favourite relative, but we’re all she’s got.”
“She calls you Kevin. She doesn’t even know who you are.”
“She calls you Morticia, so she remembers you alright.”
“She’s not even your real aunty.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well she’s not actually related to you at all is she? She doesn’t share your DNA.”
“I think we all share some DNA, don’t we? Except maybe for you…”
“How did you even meet her in the first place?”
“She used to look after us when we were kids.”
“Like babysitting?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“So she’s your ‘aunty’ on account of babysitting you?”
“She was a family friend.”
“…And was she always warty?”
“She’s not warty.”
“She’s a witch: of course she’s warty.”
“She’s my aunty, she’s old and it’s only for a couple of hours. Just try to be nice can’t you?”
“I’m always nice. Ask anyone… except for your family, of course – they all hate me.”
“They don’t hate you… well, ok they do, but you give them plenty of reasons don’t you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You put superglue in Derek’s hairpiece.”
“Oh yes, I forgot about that. That was funny!”
“Ok, it was quite amusing, yes, but I don’t think he’s ever forgiven you. He had to wear a woolly hat for weeks.”
“He called me a trollop.”
“He did not!”
“Well, he thought it.”
“We all think it.”
“You think that I’m a floozy? Why? Do you think that makes you Richard Gere?”
“I think it makes me nervous. I never know what you’re going to say.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“It would be fine if you weren’t quite so aggressive.”
“I am not aggressive!”
“The kids are all scared of you.”
“I’m a teacher. The kids are meant to be scared of me.”
“I meant Derek’s kids.”
“Your brother’s kids are wimps. What kind of kids cry when you tell them a bed-time story?”
“You told them the Bogeyman was real and living under their beds. You told them he had a chainsaw.”
“And they believed me!”
“Ellie is only four. She started wetting the bed again. Now she cries if they even mention your name.”
“…I’ll take her some sweets next time we go.”
“Derek’s kids are not allowed sweets, you know that.”
“Oh yes, what is it now, something to do with refined sugars and pig’s knuckles isn’t it? Well, they’re better than the lemon your brother’s wife seems to be permanently sucking. Her face is so pinched that not even Botox can save it.”
“She doesn’t have Botox… Does she?”
“Have you ever seen her smile?”
“Not when you’re around, no.”
“She can’t smile. Her face would explode… Shouldn’t you have gone left there?”
“Should I? Oh bugger. What does the Sat-Nav say?”
“It says that you’re in the middle of a potato field and that it’s November 2015. We really need a new car.”
“Can you get Google Maps on your phone?”
“Ok. If you promise to listen to my instructions.”
“As long as you don’t take us straight home like you did last time.”
“Maybe I’ll just take us straight to the car showroom. Maybe we can buy a car with a Sat-Nav that doesn’t list Stonehenge under new buildings.”
“I like this car.”
“Of course you do. It’s old and tatty – like your underwear.”
“It gets us from A to B.”
I know, but it needs a rest before C. It’s prehistoric. It doesn’t have cameras. It doesn’t even park itself.”
“It doesn’t need to: I do it.”
“I bet you can program a new one to do it within walking distance of the supermarket.”
“Where it will get bashed with doors and trolleys. Look at this car, the bodywork is immaculate. Not a bump or a chip anywhere. Cosmetically, it is as good as new.”
“Internally it’s senile. It doesn’t know whether it’s coming or going.”
“Only when you’re navigating.”
“And it’s SO slow. I bet it’s never been over seventy miles an hour.”
“I think you’ll find that that is as fast as it is allowed to go.”
“What do you mean?”
“The National Speed Limit is 70 MPH.”
“And who sticks to that?”
“People who don’t want to lose their licence…
“If you’re talking about me, I’ve driven this car a million times and I’ve never once gone over 70MPH – although God knows I’ve tried – and I’ve never lost my licence.”
“And how many Speed Awareness Courses have you done?”
“Only one.”
“Oh yes, I forgot, you get points on your licence after that, don’t you? How many have you got?”
“Everybody speeds from time to time.”
“I don’t.”
“I know, it is so nerve-racking being a passenger when you’re driving.”
“What do you mean? I’m really careful. I’ve never even had a single accident.”
“I know. But when we’re on a long journey I have to keep checking that you’re still alive… I have to keep checking that I’m still alive.”
“You really do need to be more patient.”
“Patient?”
“Yes, you don’t need to do everything in such a rush, you know?”
“Really? Well thank you for that information Mr Cotton-Bud dick?”
“Oh, here we go again.”
“…And you’ve just missed your turning…”

This is the fourth outing for this un-named couple. Their previous conversations are:
Five Minutes in the Car
Five More Minutes in the Car
Another Five Minutes in the Car

Frankie & Benny #12 – Coronary

“…Benny, my old friend, how are you feeling?”
“I have been better Francis, I must admit, I have been better.”
“You’re looking better than you were… when you came in, you know.”
“Well that will be, old chum, because I am no longer having a bloody heart attack. It will be because I no longer have a fifteen stone paramedic tap dancing on my chest.”
“He saved you life Benny.”
“I know, and I’m obliged, I just wish he could have done it without breaking all my bloody ribs. I don’t wish to sound ungrateful here, but couldn’t he see that I’m an old man?”
“Well at least you’re not a corpse my friend. It didn’t look good back there.”
“I know. I wonder what brought it on?”
“The heart attack?”
“No Frankie, I mean the French Peasant Uprising of 1358… of course the heart attack.”
“Well, you were on your second pie of the day.”
“Is that enough to bring on a heart attack?”
“I don’t know. Some of those pies have been in the warmer so long they could cause Bubonic Plague for all I know. I suppose the specialist will tell you.”
“Is that the woman in the pink trainers?”
“Could be, why?”
“She said with my diet and alcohol intake it’s a miracle I didn’t die years ago.”
“A tad harsh. What did you say?”
“I said that when I was younger, my diet was considered ideal.”
“And?”
“She said that when I was younger, smoking was considered good for the lungs, sugar was good for the teeth and rickets was for sissies. She said I should wake up and smell the roses. She said I should change my diet, get more exercise and drink less.”
“And you said?”
“Is there any chance of a heart transplant instead? A twenty year-old, teetotal heart should keep me going for years.”
“And she said?”
“‘Hearts are precious things, Mr Anderson. We don’t waste them on old timers like you. Just try to look after the one you’ve got.’ She said that if I behaved myself I could have years left in me yet.”
“So are you going to do that then? Are you going to behave? I mean, you’re a pain in the arse and all, but I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Maybe I could restrict my pasty intake a bit. I’m nearly eighty Frankie, I’m too old to change now. Nobody lives forever do they?”
“Indeed they do not my elderly friend, indeed they do not.”
“Besides, you need to think about it too. I’m not that much older than you, you know.”
“Three years Benny, three years. It doesn’t seem much at our age, but when we were at school…”
“We were in the same year at school.”
“I think you were held back.”
“I bloody well was not! We started school together on the same day. You always tell people that you’re three years younger than me, but you’re not. What year were you born?”
“1945.”
“And I was born in 1944.”
“So you are at least one year older than me.”
“I was born in December and you were born in January: it’s barely a month. Where do you get three years from?”
“You were always old for you age.”
“I was more sensible than you.”
“Three years more sensible.”
“Yes, well now I’ve had a heart attack for my pains and you’ve had…”
“…to sit in that corridor for two days without a change of pants. I’ve had a permanent wedgie for the last twenty four hours.”
“You sat out there for forty eight hours?”
“Of course I did. You’re my oldest friend Benny, besides, you had my front door key in your trouser pocket and they wouldn’t let me search for it. I asked the nurse if she would have a bit of a rifle through your kecks and she said that there wasn’t sufficient hand sanitizer in the hospital for her to risk that. She said that if she got five minutes she would set fire to them and rake through the ashes when they’d gone out.”
“They were clean on!”
“Mm, but they weren’t clean off, as it were.”
“…I can’t even remember what happened.”
“You remember years ago when we went to the cinema and Ursula Andress came out of the sea in a bikini? Well your face kind of went like it did back then and you gurgled.”
“Gurgled?”
“Yes. Well you were two parts of the way through a pie at the time, so I didn’t think much of it until you fell of the stool. To be honest, I wouldn’t even have thought too much about that if it hadn’t been so early in the night.”
“So you phoned an ambulance?”
“Well, I phoned them, yes, but they didn’t come. Apparently the paramedics remember the last time they got called out to The Travellers so they refused to come again without police protection.”
“And the police?”
“They, Benny my friend, also remembered the last time they got called to the estate. They wanted the army calling out.”
“So how did I get to the hospital then?”
“I couldn’t leave you on the floor, could I?”
“You carried me?”
“Are you mad? I’m no spring chicken myself you know, and let’s be honest, you take a bit more lifting than you used to… I pushed you round in a wheelbarrow. It’s a wonder I didn’t have a heart attack myself.”
“People let you push me round here on your own? Nobody offered to help?”
“Most of them thought you were pished to be fair, although I must admit that if the Bible were being written that night, it would contain the Parable of the Totally Indifferent Samaritan.”
“How long did it take you?”
“About twenty minutes, but I did nip into the offie for a scratchcard on the way.”
“You left me dying in a wheelbarrow while you bought a scratchcard?”
“I got one for you as well.”
“Oh well…”
“You didn’t win mind.”
“You scratched my scratchcard?”
“Well I wasn’t sure that you’d… you know. You kept moaning ‘Don’t let me die Frankie. I’m not ready to die…’ You’ve always been a bit of a moaner.”
“Frankie, I was in a wheelbarrow… dying.”
“I didn’t know you were dying. I thought it was wind.”
“They’ve fitted stents!”
“Oh well, that’s good then. So are you all better now?”
“I’m going to be ok I think. I just have to be careful. The specialist said I shouldn’t drink anymore.”
“Any more? Was she talking volume?”
“I presume so.”
“So a small glass is preferable to a large one?”
“That is what I assumed, yes.”
“And she never mentioned Wagon Wheels?”
“Not by name, no.”
“Good, because I’ve got a hip flask and Wagon Wheels in my bag. Come on now, sit up Benny, we’ll drink to your health my friend. Cheers…”

For your information, ‘the offie’ is the Off-Licence: a shop for the out-sales of alcohol and Wagon Wheels are large chocolate covered mallow-filled biscuits.

If you like these two old boys, you can find previous conversations at
Frankie & Benny #1
Frankie & Benny #2 – Goodbyes
Frankie & Benny #3 – The Night Before
Frankie & Benny #4 – The Birthday
Frankie & Benny #5 – Trick or Treat
Frankie & Benny #6 – Christmas
Frankie & Benny #7 – The Cold
Frankie & Benny #8 – Barry
Frankie & Benny #9 – Vaccinations
Frankie & Benny #10 – Anniversary
Frankie & Benny #11 – Dunking

First Date

You’ve been on dates where conversation was difficult right, and you just seem to lose control over what comes out of your mouth. I suppose everyone must be like it…

Nervous He: …Have you ever wondered how bad things must have been before sliced bread?
Nervous She: What?
Nervous He: Erm, I popped into the bank on the way here and asked whether they did joint accounts. They said they did so I gave them a pork loin as deposit…
Nervous She: Are you ok? You seem a bit anxious. You don’t have to entertain me you know… This is not what you’re always like is it: telling stupid jokes?
Nervous He: Well, not always. Only when I’m nervous.
Nervous She: …Do you think this top is too low?
Nervous He: It looks great.
Nervous She: It’s too low…
Nervous He: Erm, you’re at the Uni?
Nervous She: Yes.
Nervous He: So what are you studying?
Nervous She: Ethics.
Nervous He: Oh, morality, hedonism and Epicureanism…
Nervous She: No, Chelmsford, Basildon and Stansted*… Joking. Oh God, you’ve got me at it now.
Nervous He: I never went to university, although I am doing an Open University course at the moment – I’m currently on the Eating baked beans straight from the tin whilst watching Countdown in my underpants module…
Nervous She: Well you don’t look too bad on it. Do you work out?
Nervous He: I’m ok with adding and taking away, but my long division is not so good…
Waitress: I’m sorry, are you ready to order?
Nervous He: Oh yes, can I have a pizza Margarita please?
Waitress: How do you know my name?
Nervous He: I don’t, it’s just… it’s on the menu…
Waitress: Calm down, it’s a joke. Just a little waitress joke…
Nervous He: Oh right, very good…
Waitress: …Look, I know it’s none of my business, but you’re not very good at this are you?
Nervous He: This?
Waitress: First date stuff.
Nervous He: Why would you say that? You don’t even know me.
Waitress: No, but I’ve just watched you shred every serviette on the table.
Nervous He: Ah… That’s Origami. I’m a black belt…
Waitress: Isn’t Origami about folding paper, not turning it into confetti?
Nervous He: It’s the wrong paper.
Waitress: I see… And would you like to order?
Nervous She: Yes thank you. I think we’ll share a pizza… and two dry white wines please… better make them big ones… She’s right, you’re not very good at this by the way.
Nervous He: Well I don’t get out much. The last time I found myself talking to a girl I didn’t know, I was on my mate’s Stag Night: a karaoke evening.
Nervous She: Ah Karaoke: the ancient Japanese art of making a complete tit of yourself.
Nervous He: What a night it was… 27 different versions of ‘I Will Survive’ – now that’s what I call entertainment.
Nervous She: I’ve never understood why anybody would want to pay to see somebody who can really sing, when you can watch somebody who really can’t for free…
Nervous He: …and all with the added frisson of projectile vomiting… You didn’t order salad…
Nervous She: Rebellion. My older sister always tells me to eat more fibre, but what’s the first thing she does when she has a baby? She stops it eating the carpet… Anyway, salad isn’t salad anymore is it? It’s a bowlful of stuff you would put weedkiller on if it sprouted in your garden. Rocket? It’s a bloody weed. Even my rabbit won’t eat Rocket.
Nervous He: You’re right, if I order a salad, I want lettuce, tomato, cucumber, radishes shaped like roses, little cubes of cheese, a pork pie with a boiled egg running through it… now that’s salad… Have you seen that sign, ‘Ice Cold Water’? Isn’t that ice?
Waitress: One pizza, no costly extras, two glasses of wine and two sachets of ketchup to hide in your handbag and take home. Can I get you anything else?
Nervous He: Thank you… You don’t do pork pie with an egg in do you?
Waitress: I think we maybe used to… in the nineteen sixties…
Nervous He: No, that’ll be fine then, thank you.
Nervous She: Wow! You handled that so well. Pretending it never happened is always the best way, I find.
Nervous He: Actually, I’m not usually very good at handling ‘situations’… I went into town just the other day to buy a pressure cooker, but I found it way too stressful…
Nervous She: Well I went to buy a colander… what a strain…
Nervous He: Did I ever tell you about the chicken crossing the road?…

*Sorry. Very English joke. Chelmsford, Basildon and Stansted are towns in the county of Essex.

Frankie & Benny #8 – Barry

“…Well, I’m pleased we went.”
“Yes, me too, I’m pleased we went.”
“I’m sure he appreciated it.”
“…Do you think he knew who we were?”
“He thought you were one of the staff; that’s why he asked you to empty his commode. He wouldn’t have done that if he’d remembered who you were, now would he?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. He always had a strange sense of humour, Barry, I think that’s why nobody liked him… Would you visit me if I was in one of those places?”
“Of course. You owe me money.”
“Do I?”
“You don’t remember? Maybe we ought to go straight back and sign you in. Where do you keep your Will?”
“I don’t have a Will. I don’t have anything to leave – unless you want the Crinoline Lady off my spare toilet roll.”
“You have a spare toilet roll?”
“Anyway, I don’t owe you money, do I?”
“Have you got any?”
“On me? No.”
“Let’s hope we can find a pub that gives credit then, because it’s your round.”
“Francis, my dear friend, I always ensure that I maintain the pecuniary wherewithal to finance your sad alcohol dependence. I have my debit card in my wallet, an emergency ten pound note sewn into the hem of my trousers and, should all else fail, a lead-lined cosh in my pocket. Do not worry my friend, you shall not want for a tipple. And anyway, when have I ever missed my round?”
“What about last week?”
“Frankie, I was in bed with flu. You came round to mine and drank all four of the cans I had in the fridge and you ate all of my Blue Ribands.”
“I brought tea to your bedside.”
“Call that tea? It was like warm pish.”
“Honey and lemon, very good for you – at least, it would have been if you’d had any honey in…”
“…Or lemon…”
“…Or lemon.”
“So, what was it then?”
“Golden syrup and Oxo. I had to improvise.”
“You thought that you’d cure me with sweetened gravy?”
“At least I came to see you.”
“And you ate all my sausages!”
“They were going off.”
“I’d only bought them the day before.”
“Well you should have taken them back, they were horrible.”
“Really? What was the sell-by date on them?”
“Who looks at sell-by dates? You can smell if things are going off.”
“So they weren’t off then? Otherwise you wouldn’t have eaten them.”
“No, not off, just horrible. Where did you get them?”
“The corner shop.”
“You’ve been in Derek’s Bargain Bin again haven’t you? I told you, he just puts the crap out of his own fridge in there. No wonder you’ve been ill, eating all that stuff.”
“I didn’t eat it, did I? You did.”
“Yes, well I’ve always had a stronger constitution than you haven’t I? Even when we were kids, you were always the weakling.”
“I was not!”
“You were. You were never at school. Always wrapped up at home in bed, in your muffler.”
“My mum was just a bit over-cautious, what with my dad and everything.”
“Your dad?”
“Yes, and his chest.”
“Benny, there was nothing wrong with your dad’s chest. He was on the sick from 1955 to 1985 and I never once heard him cough. ‘Work-shy Wilf’ my dad used to call him. The only time he ever broke sweat was when he had to go and sign on.”
“He gave his life to that foundry. All that smoke got onto his chest, that’s what killed him.”
“Benny, he smoked sixty a day. I never once saw him without a fag on.”
“Can’t have helped, I’ll grant you…”
“Staying at home in bed, in the room directly above your dad had to be more unhealthy than going to school. Maybe you missed out on headlice, threadworm, measles, chickenpox and mumps, but laid up there, I’m surprised you didn’t turn into some kind of a kipper.”
“Well that’s as maybe, but I didn’t miss out on mumps did I?”
“Oh no, I forgot you caught that when you were eighteen didn’t you? You had a ball-bag like a bull elephant. You had to lie flat on your back for weeks. Your mam could never balance the breakfast tray on your bed…”
“Yes, well I’m pleased you find it amusing Frankie. It was a scary time.”
“Of course my friend, of course I understand. The fear of not being able to have children…”
“I don’t think that ever bothered me. I was worried that I would never be able to wear the new flares I had just bought. They had a button fly and very little in the way of non-essential space.”
“Yes, you always did like a tight trouser, didn’t you?”
“It was the fashion.”
“It might well have been the fashion, but I don’t think I ever saw you sit down for about six years.”
“Yes, well I’ve got over it now.”
“You certainly have.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, your trousers are exceedingly… accommodating these days, aren’t they?”
“I buy for comfort now.”
“Yes, you look as comfortable as a man twice your size.”
“Well, thank you for your sartorial input, Mr Versace… You didn’t answer me earlier. Would you visit me if I was in one of those places?”
“What makes you think that it won’t be you visiting me?”
“Well, granted that you’ve got a bit less ground to cover before you get there than me, but let’s just suppose…”
“Maybe we could both go ga-ga together.”
“Maybe we already have.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Well ok, take this bus, why are we sitting upstairs and why are we right at the front?”
“It’s what we always do.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I don’t know. Do we have to have a reason? It’s just what we always do isn’t it.”
“We used to come upstairs to smoke, like everybody else back then, nobody under fifty ever sat downstairs, I remember that, but why did we start sitting at the front? I don’t remember Frankie, do you?”
“No Benny, I don’t, but I don’t think that means we’re going senile either. Nobody remembers exactly why they do everything they do. It isn’t practical. Why do you always wipe your chin with a hankie before you eat?”
“I don’t… Do I? I didn’t even realise I did that.”
“My point is, Benny, you get to our age and it’s much more important that we remember what we have to do today than why we started doing something else God-knows-when.”
“And you think that’s all it is: knowing where we are and why we’re there?”
“As long as I can remember that it’s your round, I’ll be happy.”
“But what if it isn’t?”
“Then I’ll have to hope that you’ve forgotten.”
“…Do you remember when you realised that Barry wasn’t quite right?”
“Barry was never quite right.”
“Yes, I admit he was always a little bit… adjacent… I’ll give you that, but we didn’t notice when he started to change, did we?”
“Change? The thing is, we all change all the time don’t we.
“And?”
“Because it happens so slowly, you just don’t see it.”
“Like you reaching into your pocket at the bar?”
“Or you stumping up for a fish supper when it’s your turn of a Friday.”
“He kept forgetting names though didn’t he? Then he kept forgetting where he lived. Do you think we should have noticed sooner?”
“We all thought he’d had too much to drink.”
“To be fair, he normally had.”
“Yes, and if I’m honest, if I’d lived where he lived, I’d probably try to forget it too.”
“Not the best of housekeepers was he?”
“Generally speaking, flood did a better job.”
“Anyway, I’m pleased we went to see him.”
“Yes, me too.”
“We should raise a glass to him later.”
“Providing we remember…”
“Yes.”
“Do you know whether this bus turns round at the end of the route?”
“We’ve missed our stop, haven’t we?”
“Yes…”

Stupid

My wife told me I was stupid and a row ensued:

“Why would you even say such a thing?” I said.
“You always sing The Hokey Cokey while cooking okra.”
“So?”
“You don’t know the words – or the tune – and neither of us eats okra. We have to give it to the cat.”
“We don’t have a cat.”
“I know,” she smiled in triumph. “Even your leftovers are illusionary.”
“I thought you liked my singing.”
“I can just about bear your singing,” she said, “but not your voice. You sound like Ted Ray.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know him. I often see him at the fishmongers.”
“So why is he singing? Does he work there?”
“No, he gives CPR to the sea bass. He told me that if it ever works, they will marry.”
“And you say I’m mad!”
“No, I said you were stupid. Ted is mad, but he’s not stupid. He doesn’t wear a bow tie for a start.”
“Well neither do I.”
“No, but you’d like to.”
She had me there. I had been looking at one that spun round and sprayed water at anyone who came within range, but I decided against it because I couldn’t find a shirt to match.
“Anyway,” I continued, painfully aware that I was sounding pathetically defensive, “what has wearing a bow tie got to do with being stupid?”
“How stupid do you have to be to think that it could possibly be a good idea?”
“Didn’t Albert Einstein wear a bow tie? I’m sure I’ve seen photos of Einstein in a bow tie. Are you suggesting that he was stupid?”
“Sorry, I might have misheard you there, but are you comparing yourself with Einstein?”
“No, but…”
“Good, because that would be really stupid.”
“I’m just suggesting that as an indicator of stupidity, the bow tie is not the most reliable.”
“Say’s the man who only just realised that the moon doesn’t follow him when he’s driving in the car.”
“Yes, well I’m still not fully convinced about that…”
“It’s a celestial body. It’s huge! What makes you think it would follow you?”
“Ok, Mrs Clever, why doesn’t it get smaller when I drive away from it then?”
“It’s a quarter of a million miles away. Travelling the length of our street is hardly likely to make much difference is it?”
“The house looks a lot smaller from over there.”
“The house is not two hundred and thirty odd thousand miles away.”
“Exactly! It would look even smaller if it was.”
“I suppose you think that that the moon has gone out when you can’t see it, don’t you.”
“You have another explanation?”
“Cloud?”
“Not possible. You can’t see cloud when it’s dark, so there’s no way it could hide the moon.”
“…Do you believe in fairies!”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
“Well… somebody took my teeth when I was younger.”
“You don’t think it might have been your parents?”
“What would they want them for?”
“Ok. I agree, bow ties are not the official test of stupidity.”
“Brilliant! I win! …What is then?”
“Marrying you!”

Frankie & Benny #7 – The Cold

“…How many layers are you wearing under that coat Benny?”
“Why?”
“Four, five?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You look like somebody’s pumped you up.”
“Well, you’ve got plenty on yourself.”
“Nothing special: vest, shirt, jumper, cardigan and hoodie – the same as I wear about the house. I just threw a coat on top to come out with you.”
“Your dressing gown belt is hanging below your coat.”
“…And a dressing gown.”
“Well, whatever. It’s cold, I’ll grant you that, but it’s nice to get a little bit of sun on the face isn’t it.”
“Drizzle.”
“Alright, if it makes you happy, it’s nice to get a little bit of drizzle on the face. It’s nice not to be looking at the same four walls.”
“Especially with your wallpaper.”
“What’s wrong with my wallpaper? I put that up myself.”
“How long ago, twenty years? Thirty?”
“Probably. About the same time you last bought new trousers.”
“What’s wrong with my trousers? They’re good trousers.”
“There’s nothing wrong with them Frankie. I like a good turn-up myself. And a button fly. How long does it take you to do that up in the morning?”
“If I’m honest I don’t normally bother unless I know I’ve got to go out.”
“…My wife chose that wallpaper, that’s why I’ve never changed it, since she… It’s the only time I’ve ever wallpapered.”
“It’s stayed up well, I’ll give you that. No sign of it peeling or anything.”
“So it should. It cost me a fortune in Bostick!”
“Bostick?”
“It was all they had at the corner shop. Everyone in the block was suffering hallucinations the week I put it up.”
“You made a good job of it though.”
“Until I ran out of paper.”
“Yes, well, always been the elephant in the room that one, hasn’t it. Couldn’t you have got some more?”
“They wanted me to buy a whole roll and I only needed one length. I always meant to push that old Tallboy in front of it, but…”
“…It’s hiding where you tried to plaster over the serving hatch.”
“So I’ve never bothered much since… Do you fancy a pasty?”
“What time is it?”
“Pasty time.”
“Ok then. We’ll walk through the park shall we, get one from the pub?”
“Why not? Nothing like a microwaved pasty and a pint of lager for warding off the cold.”
“What about a whisky?”
“Whisky? Are you paying?”
“Well, I have had a small win on the scratchcards.”
“Really? How small?”
“Enough for a whisky to accompany our pasties and, but not enough to put the fire on when we get back home.”
“Oh well, an hour in the pub then, and then an afternoon on the seat over the heater on the bus before we head home.”
“Are we at yours or mine tonight?”
“Mine I think – providing you do your buttons up.”
“I’ll probably put my onesie on.”
“You’ve got a onesie?”
“Yes. Well, it’s more of an overall if I’m honest. I kept it when I finished work.”
“That was fifteen years ago.”
“I knew it would come in… and since I spilled the tomato soup it matches my slippers.”
“Do you sleep in it?”
“Benny, I’m in my eighties. I sleep in everything.”
“So do you wear it over your clothes then?”
“Some of them, I mean, I don’t suppose you’ll be putting your heating on will you?”
“It depends on what you class as heating…”
“I’ll bring a blanket then, shall I?”
“A hot water bottle wouldn’t go amiss… and drop a tea bag in it. It’ll save boiling the kettle later.”
“I’ll bring those squashed Wagon Wheels* I got last week.”
“We’ll put a plastic bag over the smoke alarm and light a candle, that’ll warm things up.”
“I might have to take these plus-fours off though. I think I could be allergic to tweed and they might be just a bit too much even inside your flat… Still the bloody drizzle. I wish I’d put my balaclava on…”

*A chocolate covered marshmallow topped biscuit. When I was a child the advert used to go, ‘Wagon Wheels are the treat for me. They’re the biggest biscuit you ever did see.’ They have shrunk.

Should you be at all interested in the previous conversations of these two old friends you can find them here:

Frankie & Benny #1
Frankie & Benny #2 – Goodbyes
Frankie & Benny #3 – The Night Before
Frankie & Benny #4 – The Birthday
Frankie & Benny #5 – Trick or Treat
Frankie & Benny #6 – Christmas

Frankie & Benny #4 – The Birthday

“It’s your birthday Frankie my friend, so you choose. What should we do today?”
“Well now Benjamin, that’s a tricky one. I mean the world is so full of opportunities, isn’t it? We could take a cruise on our private yacht. We could have lunch in our favourite restaurant in Paris, dip our toes in the water at St Tropez, perhaps fine wines and an evening with Barry Manilow in Las Vegas… or we could perhaps walk a slow circuit of the park…”
“…Like we always do…”
“…drop in at the pub for a pie and a pint…
“…as ever…”
“…home for an afternoon snooze…”
“…the same as always…”
“…and then a film on the TV at yours or mine with a couple of cans of beer and a microwave chicken curry…”
“…just the same as every Saturday.”
“ Ay… we like it though, don’t we.”
“We do, but don’t you think that we should do something just a little bit different as it’s your birthday?
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, it’s your birthday, you choose.”
“Well ok. We could… I can’t think of anything.”
“Oh come on. Use your imagination. We could go to the pictures.”
“The pictures, yes, that’s a grand idea. The pictures. We haven’t been to the pictures in years. What’s on?”
“Erm, let’s see. There’s ‘Nope’.”
“Nope?”
“Yes.”
“Is that the name of it? Of the film? What’s it about?”
“UFO’s I think.”
“Oh no. I can’t be doing with all that pie-in-the-sky mularkey. There are quite enough little green men in the pub of a Saturday night. Isn’t there a Western on or something?”
“There’s ‘Where the Crawdads Sing.’”
“What’s a crawdad?”
“No idea?”
“Oh. Well, who’s in it?”
“Erm, let me see here. It says Daisy Edgar-Jones, Taylor John Smith, Harris Dickinson and Garret Dillahunt…”
“How many people is that?”
“No idea.”
“Have you heard of any of them?”
“No.”
“There must be something else.”
“Well, there’s the new Top Gun.”
“Ah, I saw the first one of those.”
“And did you like it?”
“No.”
“Oh, we used to love the cinema though, didn’t we? Back in the day. You and me, two young ladies, a tanner each in the back row, a newsreel, a cartoon, a ‘B’ film and a main feature – a proper cowboy or cops and robbers…”
“A choc-ice at half time and ten minutes necking if you were lucky before the usherette turned her torch on you.”
“Necking?”
“Ay, canoodling, you know.”
“I remember the choc ices. The chocolate always fell off in the dark. You always came out of the pictures looking like you’d shit yourself.”
“I never could be trusted with chocolate, Benny. I think that’s why they invented the Milky Bar, so it didn’t show up so much on my beige loons.”
“Oh, you loved those loons.”
“And my brown suede Hush Puppy boots.”
“It used to be great, didn’t it, to get dressed up for a night out I mean?”
“Part of the fun, my friend: the matching shirt and tie, the drape coat…”
“…the tank tops and the cork-heeled shoes.”
“Perhaps that’s what we could do today, for my birthday: we could get dressed up, hit the town. Maybe we could have a more sophisticated lunch…”
“A ploughman’s, perhaps.”
“King prawns in our curry and perhaps hire a DVD instead of watching whatever old tosh is on the telly.”
“Do you have anything to play a DVD on?”
“No.”
“No, me neither. It’s all Netflix isn’t it now.”
“Have you got that?”
“No. I’ve got channel 4.”
“OK. That’ll do. We’ll watch ‘Bake Off’.”
“No, come on, let’s do it. Let’s get dressed up and head out for town. We might meet some ladies.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about that Benny. I’m out of practice at all that. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Let’s not worry about that for now. Let’s just get our glad rags on and promenade.”
“Glad rags?”
“Sunday togs. Let’s do it.”
“I’m not sure. I think my best cardigan might be in the wash.”
“Come on, let’s just make the effort. Trousers without an elasticated waist, shoes without a tartan Velcro strap, you could take your vest off for a start.”
“I always wear a vest.”
“Over your shirt?”
“Oh, I must have got a little out of synch this morning. I woke up needing to… you know. I had to rush into my clothes. It’s freezing in that bathroom. I’ll move my vest under my shirt, change my trousers, put some shoes on, will that suit you?”
“Maybe gel your hair a little bit. So you don’t look quite so much like you’ve just got out of bed.”
“Gel? I don’t think I’ve got any gel. I’ve got some Vaseline from when I had that rash.”
“That’ll do. Instead of walking round the park and back to the pub, we’ll go straight through, maybe to that wine bar on the other side, and we can feed the ducks on the way.”
“Do they do pies?”
“The ducks?”
“The wine bar. Do they do pies?”
“Oh no. Sophisticated dining there, Francis my friend, couscous I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Couscous? What the hell is couscous?”
“No idea, but I’m sure they’ll do it with chips.”
“And beer?”
“Lager. Fancy lager. In bottles…”
“Ah what the hell. It’s my birthday. Let’s give it a go. I’ll go and get ready.”
“You’ll need a coat, mind.”
“Really?”
“It bucketing it down.”
“Oh, I’m not sure about my best shoes in that park when it’s raining: it’s a quagmire at the best of times. Full of dog shit as well if you’ve not got your wits about you.”
“Yes, you’re right. Maybe not your best shoes.”
“And trousers?”
“Elasticated ankles might be wise.”
“Perhaps we could just go straight to the pub.”
“It’s much nearer.”
“I’m not really over keen on ducks, truth be told.”
“No. Quacking little bastards.”
“Our age, it’s much more sensible to get out of the rain as quick as we can. We could catch our deaths.”
“We’ll do that then, and after that we’ll come back here for a cup of tea – I’ve got a pack of those Breakaway biscuits…”
“…and maybe a bit of a nap by the fire…”
“…chicken curry for tea and a couple of cans with the film on the telly.”
“Sounds great… I can’t think of a better way to spend my birthday, old friend.”
“It’s always good to ring the changes. Cup of tea and a Kit-Kat before we go?”
“Great. Put the kettle on, I’ll go and change my vest and find a clean cardigan…”

These are my two favourite recurring characters, and a joy to write. If you want to find more of them, you can catch them here: A Little Fiction – Frankie & Benny; A Little Fiction – Goodbyes – Frankie & Benny #2; A Little Fiction – The Night Before – Frankie & Benny #3

Gas (The Meaning of Life #4)

“…The thing is,” asserted the man in the Cavalry Twill overcoat, wiping foam from the tip of his nose with his sleeve “that it’s not our fault, so there’s no way we should have to pay for it.”
“Who should pay for it then?” asked the man in the Meerkat T-shirt. “Who is responsible?”
“Napoleon,” said the man in the moleskin waistcoat.
“Napoleon?” laughed Cavalry Twill. “Napoleon? He never even had electricity. He wouldn’t have had to take that Josephine on campaign with him, eating all the cake et cetera, if he’d had e.g. an electric blanket with him.”
“Napoleon ordered his army’s tailors to put buttons along his soldiers’ cuffs to stop them wiping their noses on their sleeves.”
“A dapper man that Napoleon,” said T-shirt. “Wouldn’t have liked shiny sleeves.”
“Except on a mohair suit,” said Moleskin.
“Except on a mohair suit,” agreed T-shirt. “Par for the course on a mohair suit.”
The man in the Cavalry Twill overcoat carefully picked a stray peanut from his lap and ate it in quiet contemplation. “Putin,” he said at length. “Putin is responsible for the current situation viz-a-viz the having to burn all the downstairs doors in order to keep warm scenario. He should be made to pay our energy bills.”
“He’s got deep pockets, I’m sure,” said Moleskin, “but I doubt that even he can afford to pay everybody’s gas and electric.”
“Not everybody’s,” said C.T. “Just those as need it. Just those who e.g. have to keep their wossname knitted gilets on after they get back from the pub. Just those who have to, for instance, get rather closer to their spouses in bed than they would ideally like to for the shared heat of a hot water bottle. It could, in my opinion, be classed as a war crime.”
“Are you mad?” said Moleskin, a thousand tiny blood vessels popping gently behind his eyes. “Stark, staring mad? You do know, don’t you, that there are actual war crimes being committed out there? That people are dying?”
“Putin denies it.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he.”
“He’s not denying messing with the gas though.”
Moleskin stared at C.T. for a long time. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided it would get him nowhere. He looked to Meerkat for support, but he was preoccupied with examining the tip of a pencil he had just extracted from his ear. “Another pint?” he asked at length.
“Thought you’d never ask,” said C.T.
Moleskin stood slowly and lifted the glasses from the sticky table one at a time.
The man in the Cavalry Tweed overcoat carefully brushed down his sleeves. “I mean, it’s alright for some isn’t it?” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” said Moleskin, fighting to ease his ever tightening grip on the fragile glasses.
“Well, you management types,” continued the man in the overcoat. “It’s alright for you.”
“I’m not management!”
“He works in the same place as you,” said Meerkat. “Same job.”
“He wears,” said Cavalry Twill, “a tie under his overall. He has clean shoes. He has pens in his top pocket…”
“What have my shoes got to do with anything? I do exactly the same job as you,” said Moleskin, the cilia on the back of his neck rising as one, like the rioters at a Donald Trump rally. “I get paid exactly the same.”
“But without the overheads.”
“I’ve got a mortgage, two kids at school, a wife who holds down two jobs to make ends meet, a nine year old car that’s in worse shape than Elton John’s toupee…”
“No dogs though,” said C.T. “No satellite T.V.”
Meerkat looked alarmed.
“We barely watch the T.V.” explained Moleskin. “We get all we need from Freeview. And we listen to the radio a lot.”
“Oh can’t you see them of an evening,” sneered C.T. “Reading books and listening to The Archers. Drinking Earl Grey tea and dunking those Barramundi biscuits…”
“…Garibaldi,” said Moleskin.
“What?”
“Garibaldi. The biscuits are Garibaldi. Barramundi are fish.”
“Really?” I suppose they told you that on Radio 4 did they? ‘What’s My Fish’ was it, with him off the news?”
“I don’t care for raisins,” said Meerkat. “They get under my plate. I have to poke them out with a crochet hook.”
Moleskin glared. “Is that really the point?” he asked.
“Well, not for you perhaps,” said C.T. patting Meerkat softly on the shoulder. “You’ll have a dentist no doubt. Properly fitting dentures. Porcelain crowns I shouldn’t wonder.”
“A gas powered toothbrush,” said Meerkat, suddenly getting a feel for things.
The man in the cavalry twill overcoat and the man in the moleskin waistcoat stared at him, slack jawed, for some time. “A man could dehydrate waiting for you to get them in,” said C.T. at last as Moleskin departed for the bar with a resigned shrug.
“Do you think that Putin will pay my gas bill?” asked Meerkat. “I don’t mind if he doesn’t stump up for the electric. We’ve got an electric cooker – I’d save a fortune on burned food.”
“It could be a true test of his communist convictions,” said C.T. “From each according to his means, to each according to his needs.”
“You don’t suppose he’d pitch in a bit towards the rent as well, do you?”
“I thought you owned your house.”
“Well I do,” said Meerkat. “Technically. But he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment hasn’t he, that Putin, what with going mad and everything, perhaps he wouldn’t notice. I don’t suppose he’d be too particular with his paperwork. He doesn’t seem to be that bothered about petty bureaucracy does he?”
“Well no, I suppose not. He’d want a bit of the property though, wouldn’t he? If he was going to pay the rent I mean. Somewhere with easy access to next door in case he fancied a piece of the action there sometime. Some means of reaching next door but one…”
The man in the moleskin waistcoat returned with three pints of lager and placed them carefully on the table.
“So, if Putin’s not going to pay for the gas then, who do you think will?” asked Meerkat.
“Search me,” said Moleskin. “We all will in the end I suppose.”
“Or go back to how things were a hundred years ago.”
“We’re already on the way I think…”

I’d probably like to say that these three are a joy to write, but it’s more true to say that they are a gift when you want to tell everybody exactly what you don’t want to say. They have also appeared in The Meaning of Life: Supplementary Philosophy (The Meaning of Life #2): Ancient Greeks (The Meaning of Life #3)

A Little Fiction – Frankie & Benny

“…So, you know what it’s like, you’re well into discussing the state of your underwear when you realise that the person you are talking to is not the person you thought you were talking to, but you can’t stop now, can you, without drawing attention to it? Without, as it were, looking an even bigger pranny than you already do.”
“Perhaps it would be wiser to keep the on-going condition of your undercrackers out of the conversation until you had a little more time in which to ensure clarity, viz a viz the ‘who am I talking to’ conundrum, in future.”
“What?”
“You do tend to introduce your grundies into the chat rather more early than is altogether seemly, if you want my opinion Benny.”
“I don’t!”
“Fine, that’s fine then… So, who were you chatting to in the end, anyway?”
“Turns out she was from the council. She’d come to discuss the complaint I’d put in about the smell.”
“And you thought it was the ideal time to introduce your trolleys into the conflab?”
“I thought it was a long-lost aunty or somesuch. I’d even offered her a Yo-Yo.”
“Mint or toffee?”
“Mint.”
“Classy.”
“Well, I thought she might have turned up out of the blue to tell me that I’d inherited some money or something. You can’t go offering Rich Tea in those circumstances, can you? That’s a Penguin conversation at least.”
“I have Viscount myself. Superior quality of tin-foil on a Viscount I find: stay fresh for week’s they do.”
“Yes, well, we’re not all superannuated you know.”
“Right, well, I can see why you got the Yo-Yo’s out Benny, need to make the right impression in such a circumstance, but what drew your shitty pants into the discourse?”
“She mentioned the smell.”
“From the yard?”
“Of course, that’s why I’d rung the council in the first place – not, of course, that I realised that she was from the council at that stage – but I thought that, if she was indeed a solicitor or somesuch, planning to make me the sort of offer that could see me as the proud owner of an automatic washing machine or an induction hob et cetera, then I needed to make her au fait with the fact that, whilst the money to make my laundry days a little less time consuming than my current trip to the laundrette in Morrison’s carpark would be most welcome, those same arrangements were not the cause of the unpleasant odour at that time permeating my whole flat and, to that effect, I thought it legitimate to mention that my pants were clean on last Thursday.”
“That being?”
“Monday. So a good few days left in them at that point.”
“And how did she react?”
“Well, that’s when I began to suspect that all might not be as it seemed, Frankie, that things were, indeed, somewhat at odds with my expectations.”
“Go on.”
“‘The Council is not in the habit of handing out loans to those who are – for whatever reason – unable to stop themselves from being the source of unpleasant odours,’ she said. ‘We do not, in short, expect to be called out to the properties of unsavoury old men in order to experience for ourselves the smell that they give off due to not being able to keep themselves clean. I bid you good day,’ she said, and made to leave. ‘Now just you wait on,’ I said, but she was ready for me. ‘If you think,’ she said, ‘that you can threaten me, Mr Anderson, you’d better think again,’ and she scooped up her Yo-Yo and left without a by-your-leave.”
“Oh dear. So what will you do now?”
“Well, we need to get out there and find out where the smell is actually coming from.”
“We?”
“I’m an old man, Frankie, you wouldn’t have me out there on my own would you? ‘Now, what’s causing that smell? Oh my God, look at that! It’s a…’ Exit Benny, gripping chest in agony. Alone and friendless in a smelly backyard.”
“Alright, point made. You are certain of your underwear situation, aren’t you?”
“Would you like to take alook for yourself?”
“No, no, definitely no. Ok, I’ll accompany you onto the patio. I’m not touching anything, mind.”
“Right, let’s go to it then: strike while the iron’s hot. I want to find out what’s causing the stink and rub that old luxury biscuit thief’s nose in it.”
“Ok. How do we get in there?”
“Where?”
“The backyard. How do we get in there? The door’s always locked, but I’ve never seen a key for it. Who’s got the key?”
“Ah, I’d never thought of that. I bet it’s that bloody TFW on the ground floor. I’m not knocking on his door to ask for it.”
“I’m not sure he’s even in. There’s an old lavvy outside his front door and about three week’s milk.”
“He took the lavvy out himself – with his head. It was annoying him, apparently, but the milk… You don’t suppose he’s dead do you? It would explain the smell.”
“I’m not sure that he could smell any worse dead than he did alive, my old chum. He had what I believe the BBC would term an ‘uneasy relationship’ with soap. Ten years I’ve been coming to your flat Benny, and other than the day of the gravy incident, I’ve never seen him change his clothes. I hear that David Attenborough is preparing to do a whole series on the life contained within his jogging bottoms… You want to get rid of the smell, you need to get out of this flat my friend.”
“But what if he’s dead?”
“Does he have any cats?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Nobody to eat him then. He could lay there decomposing for months. They say that you can never remove the smell of a dead body.”
“Particularly one that is welded to his clothes. I’ll phone the council again. I’ll say I can’t manage the stairs… Have you still got that spare room, Frankie? Just as a stopgap I mean. Just short term. Until they sort me out with a new flat. There are some empty near you aren’t there?”
“There are, yes. They are constantly becoming vacant, in fact there is a permanent hearse on standby at the end of the block. We used to run a sweepstake on who would be next, but there’s not enough of us left now. There’s more chipboard around me now than a kebab shop. Come on, let’s not bother phoning, we’ll just wander round and see them. Get your stick. Put a marble in your shoe, that’ll help.”
“Ok, I will… Shall we just have a cup of tea before we go?”
“Ay, why not. Don’t suppose you’ve got any of those Yo-Yos left, have you?””
“No.”

I decided to revisit some old ‘Little Fiction’ friends and whilst I was doing so, I met these new ones… N.B. my thanks to Billy Connolly for ‘TFW’ – Tattooed Fuck-Wit.

Frankie and Benny reappear here: A Little Fiction – Goodbyes (Frankie & Benny #2)