A view from a barstool #39 by Landlord

Beer 2“It’s the most wonderful time in the world” so the Christmas song goes. Nope the grumpy, athiest Landlord hasn’t taken leave of his senses nor has the barmaid ran off with me. It’s the time that some unwashed lefty landlords and I get together to do CAT tests on the promotional barrels of Hobgoblin (rather a lot of them) and discuss all things fascist and how we go about countering them around the country. Also they help me to write this blog. Last year they helped me on Bigot brother or big Bigot, this year we have come up with a new soap opera, Bigot Street. Hopefully someone picks it up or it could be a bigger failure than Eldorado. Forgive me any typos please, writing this after a few pints of the nectar probably isn’t the best time to do this.

This is set in a street that the fash dream of, a late 50’s terrace and people leaving the doors open. At number one a rather rotund gentleman known as Goldibollocks lives, a British flag or seven decorating both front and back, so it appears there are more people there than is thought, he appears to be the leader of the gang. He doesn’t work for a living just cons everybody and pretends to be a political heavyweight whilst being shit scared to enter into debates.

At number two is a loud mouthed harridan called Screechy who spends her days again not working but living off the begging bowl. Everyday she changes her security arrangements paid for by unsuspecting members of the public that think she does more than just screech at anybody that doesn’t pray to her particular god. She also tells all that she is a legal whizz having studied at Bigot Street’s local college, ‘The School of Hard Knocks’. She appears to have a hatred of anyone that doesn’t think the same way or is slightly tanned. She was in awe of Goldibollocks but now appears to be happier with her uncle.

Number 3 is the local newsagents, ran by a man who everyone calls Uncle Jim. He seems to like black and white flags and calling for crusades. He has all the newspapers in the shop, The Express, Mail, Brietbart. He’s the local lay preacher that hates homosexuality, Catholics and Islam. This could change depending on who he can fleece the most out of. He hates socialism but seems a bit taken by the Russian president.

Number four is a Fatman who works at the bakery. This bakery sells nothing but pies. He is a touch more literate than the others and although the bakery never opens although there always appears to be pies there in the morning. Mr Lewis is also treasurer of the streets council as he has the batteries for the calculator and the typewriter. He also can’t be trusted with the local church fĂȘtes banner as it seems he loses them too easily.

Number Five is lived in by security guard Lomax. He is never seen without a stab vest, body camera, dodgy gloves and heavy walking stick. He seems obsessed with Screechy and Goldibollocks as he follows them everywhere they go like a faithful lapdog. He really should be licenced but can’t con anyone to put him through the course as he is too far down the hierarchy of Bigot Street. He is most likely to run in the opposite direction of anyone tanned.

Next there seems to be a confused gent. He hates immigration but has a name like Carmelo. He seems hell bent on getting into the A team and climbing the ladder of the hierarchy and closer to the honeypot. He seems to want to take on the immigrants with a stab vest, camouflage and a ruler.

At number seven, although on the outside of the main team is Nasty Nick. He seems to have talked his way in by sucking up to Uncle Jim. He has political ambition and appeared on the TV being owned by an audience. He wants all his fellow bigot’s to follow him to Hungary to set up racist world but no one wants to invest.

At number eight, although his house has the number 228 on it is a chap called Broomfield. He has the number 228 as although a paid up member of the gang he is an embarrassment to the high command.

Here I must stop with the houses, mainly due to the fact the Hobgoblin is taking effect.

At the end of Bigot Street there is a pub. A real olde world one with bar billiards (would have been a snooker room but Screechy and Goldibollocks kept taking it for filming). This pub sells great British beer like Stella, Carlsberg and Guinness. The top shelf of Smirnoff, Bacardi and Jim Beam, you know none of that foreign muck here. The Bigot’s stand around the old Joanna singing patriotic songs and wishing it was 1958 when blighty wasn’t overran by johnny foreigner, we all sang the national anthem and we respected the law of the land (as long as it wasn’t made by communist police and the lefty lackeys of the judiciary. The bigot’s talk long into the night deciding that a wall round their street complete with machine gun nests and barbed wire before toddling off for a non halal kebab.

So that’s the idea, I only need firty faaaaaaasand paaaaaands to get it off the ground. Can you chip in.
TARGET firty faaaaaaasand
Amount conned a midget gem, a marshmallow, three buttons and a safety pin.

Anyway, I should be back next week cuddling another barrel and reporting on all things biffer if the hangover goes and I have bought a big enough anniversary present for the wife.

Toodlepip

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