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Dancing at the Pig and Whistle

I bumped into Reg and Nigel coming out of the Co-op again this morning. They had bags and arms full of bottles of wine and 4-packs of Stella Artois lager. Unlike last time, they appeared to be quite sober.

‘Planning another daytime drinking session, chaps?’ I asked breezily.

‘We’re celebrating,’ Nigel beamed.

‘You were last time if I remember correctly. Something to do with the Pope being Catholic?’

‘He’s not, is he?’ Reg seemed rather taken aback.

‘My wife’s coming back,’ Nigel declared. ‘We’re having a party at the Pig and Whistle to mark the occasion. Everyone is invited. Even you.’

‘I don’t think the landlord will appreciate you bringing loads of your own booze to his pub.’ I warned them.

‘Gay Gene?’ Reg looked genuinely bemused. ‘You know Gay Gene, don’t you, Davy? He’s very accommodating. He lets anyone do anything, usually. As long as it’s all done in his pub and not down the road in the Royal. They ought to shut that place down.’

‘I don’t know him that well, Reg. Unlike you and Nigel, I have never penetrated his intimate circle.’

‘Eight o’clock tonight,’ Nigel interjected. ‘There’ll be karaoke, dancing, lesbians, black pudding sarnies, pickled eggs, and a raffle.’

‘Hmm . . . pickled eggs, you say?’


‘I’ll be there.’