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In The Pub


Baby you can drive my Car

‘She’s giving me the eye, there Bert,’ opined, bachelor-for-life, Reg.

‘No, don’t think so, Reg. That one’s not a goer, I can assure you. And def’nitely not your type,’ Bert caught the eye of Trevor the barman, and waved his arm over their drinks in a circular fashion indicating “same again”.

‘My type? How the heck would you know what woman is my type?’

‘Because no woman comes with a number or letter,” Bert said, with the worldly air of a much-married man who knew the likes of  Sir Cliff Richard or even the Pope had more chance of finding the right woman than Reg.

‘Not following you there, Bert,” said Reg bridling at his friend’s presumption that he couldn’t identify a ‘come-on’ when he saw one.

‘If I remember, it was first a D-Type when you were going through your Sterling Moss phase. Then the E-Type. Blue one. V-12. After this you went for the XJ series. Then afterwards you went a bit foreign and bought a C-class, S-Class SE Class and you are currently driving a 450 SEC.’

‘Feller’s got to have a set of wheels,’ Reg answered somewhat defensively.

‘Yes, he has. And very nice wheels they are. All of them. The point I’m trying to make, Reg, is, you were always more interested in how a car went then ever you were a woman. And when it came to servicing, the car always came first. And I’m not sure if I only mean that figuratively either. Besides, the ‘bird’ that you think is giving you the eye is Randolph ‘Randy’  Blenkinsthorpe-Smythe.’

‘So?’ Reggie retorted.

Bert sighed.

‘Randy Blenkisthorpe-Smyhe from school. Remember?’

‘What? That disgusting pervert who was expelled after being found in the girls change room?’

‘Yes. That one.’

‘But I thought he was a transvestite?’

‘Couldn’t say for sure, Reg. Although I have it on good authority that he’s a cross-dresser,’ Bert said.

Reg glanced along the bar at the apparition in an elegant little black number. He was tempted to wink but thought better of it for now. At least until he’d cleared up this nonsense. He turned back to his friend.

‘Cross dresser you say? She doesn’t look very cross to me, Bert. She smiled again and just raised her glass. With her left hand too. Lefty’s are very creative people. Misunderstood geniuses, so I’ve heard.’

‘Reg, you are not listening. She is a he. And you really do not want to find out how creative he is. You really don’t.’

Reg took a large swallow of his gin and tonic, called Trevor over for a third round and mulled this over.

‘So who told you, anyway?’

‘Told me what?’

‘That stuff about a…a…whatever you said.’

‘Cross-dresser. And the person who told me was his wife,’ Bert explained.

‘’You mean she’s a lesbian?’ Reg asked somewhat shocked.

‘Who is?’ Bert replied.

Her,’ Reg hissed jerking his head in the direction of the grinning Randy Kruger, the erstwhile Randolph Blenkinsthorpe-Smythe.

Bert shook his head in exasperation. ‘Listen. You believe in Friday 13th and all that stuff, right?’

‘Sure do. Black cats, not stepping on the lines, throwing salt over my shoulder. The works. Important to be on the safe side when it comes to the spirit world,’ Reg acknowledged firmly.

‘Spirits. Right,’ Bert said glancing down at Reg’s third empty glass. ‘So you would never consider getting underneath a ladder on a day like this would you?’

‘Huh, not bloody likely, old friend. And not only on Friday 13th.’

‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that. Now look at Randy’s legs. More importantly look very closely at ‘her’ stockings.’

Reg turned then turned back.

‘Blimey! They’ve got more ladders than a firm of window-washers,’ Reg said.

‘Precisely. And if you get underneath those ladders your luck is going to go one way. Trust me on this, okay?’


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