THE DRUNK GINGER TWAT CALLED ANGUS

RARE AND REMARKABLE

Rare and remarkable that’s what it is: a one armed attacker with a hold of a man’s throat in a bar brawl matinee performance. That’s not something you see every day and therefore demands further scrutiny.

From the assailant’s stance it’s probably his finest gambit, a deadly grip rendering his victim incapacitated. Okay he’s kind of limited as to further action – slamming another fist into the head springs to mind but that would seem of little concern when you’ve got the choke on some poor bastard’s life breath.

The victim, on the other hand, is up against it, big time. Compensation is key: the one eyed man’s vision sharp as a spyglass pulling ships into focus on the horizon; the man with the single ear bothered by the insects in the wall. This arm is strong, it can curl a fifty pound dumbbell; and dexterous, it can create desk sculptures from wire. You wouldn’t want that gripping your throat, oh no, and you would, undoubtedly, feel pity for anyone unfortunate enough to actually find themselves in that predicament. Anyone would. If it wasn’t the Ginger, Drunk Twat called Angus.

No-one rushing to help then and you don’t need to ask whose fault it was. Coming in, steaming drunk, shouting, ‘who’s the hardest cunt in here’ is inadvisable at the best of times but when there’s already a ‘whose-thumb-in-the-box’ rumble in progress, well.

A game of ‘whose-thumb-in-the-box’? Not familiar in your parlour? Don’t worry, it only reared into fruition on this particular day and is, by its very nature, played exclusively by slippery eels. Confused? Sorry, my fault I’ve dragged you into this English pub, it’s called the ‘Half Moon’ by the way, a bit sudden like. Without even a smidgeon of, how would you say, preview. I’ll (re)start at the start.

Crusher Mason enters, gets himself a pint and takes up his position amongst the usual suspects. He grunts in greeting. Everyone grunts back. It’s the Monday club. Bit like a felonious breakfast club. Grim. And none grimmer than Crusher.

‘Fight last night?’ asks an ex-con, flat cap, coke fiend called Danny Partridge or Millar or … whatever.

‘Course,’ goes The Glaswegian, ‘Sunday night spectacular was it no Crusher?

‘Grunt,’ grunts Crusher.

Saloon door swings and in breezes Bronco Billy in a right old bazoomy.

‘Cants,’ he says, ‘fackin old Bill facking cants.’

All heads turn at the mention of law enforcement.

‘Stop and search right out there in the facking busy frog and toad, spectacle innit. Facking embarrassing. Innit?’

‘Stop and search?’ screeches Millie Tant, ‘fascist pigs!’

‘Yeah, zactly. But wait, you aint heard the best yet. I aint got no gak left I tells ’em, it’s facking Monday innit. But they says they aint looking for no gak, they’re searching for … a geezer’s thumb.’

‘Eh?’ asks the collective.

‘Yeah, some poor cant’s up the ‘ospital all beat up, with no facking thumb. Bit orf innit.’

This is definitely queer. The usual suspects are about as startled as they’re ever likely to get. There’s much swigging of drinks and mutterings.

Crusher’s grim face cracks into a psycho grin as he pulls out a matchbox, bends his ear towards it as it rattles with a shake and asks the question of the day. ‘Whose thumb in the box?’

‘Bags first go.’ says Danny, taking the box, rattling it thoughtfully and guessing, ‘Jackie Pallo.’

‘Gies that here.’ demands The Glaswegian, snatching, he deploys a more twisting motion in an attempt to discern the thumbs previous owner, before declaring, ‘Johnny Kincaid.’

Always the attention seeker Millie Tant makes her guess by thumping the table to see how far in the air the box jumps, ‘Shirly Crabtree.’

The Blonde Bitch has been to see Dynamo, she deduces by the power of her tiny mind, ‘Adrian Street.’

Crazy Linda goes back to the standard rattle, ‘Mick McManas.’

Adam the Deaf Guy can hear no rale he relies entirely on weight, passing the box from hand to hand he offers up, ‘Skull Murphy.’

All this is beyond the Tall Chavvy Fighting Idiot of Old’s comprehension, he makes no guess.

And neither does One Armed Keith who only wags the box once and hands it back to Crusher with a strange look on his face.

And so this is it. The reveal. He opens the box. Tips out a thumb. It rolls along the table and … the tiny tattoo of a dragon just before the ragged, red edge of flesh and bone … KENDO NAGASAKI. Keith’s best friend. But what can he do? This is Crusher Mason we’re talking about here.

Saloon door swings open again. Enter, the Ginger Drunk Twat Called Angus.

‘Whose the hardest cunt in here?’

‘I am,’ shouts Keith and bolts out his chair like a man not right.

Queeny Brewster, long term landlady of ‘The Half Moon’ has seen most things but obviously not ‘the lot’. She’s captivated by this spectacle of strangulation. She can’t take her eyes of it as she presses the red button beneath the bar and fumbles blindly behind the gin bottles for THE BOOK OF THE BARRED.