BIG MAC

It's many years since I did my spell of "Moonlighting" on the cabs
to earn a few extra bob.

In those days there were three Irish fellows, hard workers and hard
drinkers, who could be the bane of a cab drivers life as he tried to
prise them out of clubs, pubs and takeaway food establishments of
foreign nationals various during the busy period on a Friday
night.

In hindsight though Mick, Mack and Paddy were probably three of the
greatest "characters" I ever met.

Whether or not their daily intake of ninety per cent alcohol and ten
per cent vindaloo has foreshortened their lives and sent them to that
great umpteen foot deep trench in the sky, I know not...

....but this story is dedicated to them.

What about bleep? That's the sound of the censor!

MICK MAC PADDY BLEEP

N

estling in it's own brand of unique congenial squalor, buried deep
within the rural obscurity of Toddlesworth on the Pee, lies the small
town of Middlethorpe in the Mire. Nestling serenely within the High
Street in it's own brand of convivial charm betwixt the Toddlesworth
and District Bank and Braithwaite's chippie, whilst being a mere five
minute inebriated crawl from the Town Hall, stands the Wise Owl
Tavern.

Fred, the Landlord was in a Paddy...To be more precise three Paddies
were in at Freds and as we join the scene, the aforementioned Irishmen
are snoring in their own unique brand of ale besotted haze slumped in
an undignified heap beneath the second bar stool from the left viewed
from the Public Bar door. Worse than that their feet, or to be more
precise three pairs of tarmacadam encrusted hob nailed wellies, were
blocking the door to the gents loo, and, following an extended meeting
of the District Finance, Recreational and Planning Committee, Albert
Stoic and other local Councillors (various) were all bursting for pees
(as in "relief" not as in "river")

Readers of previous tales will recall that the Toddlesworth and
District Bank was about to go Hi Tec. Cables had to be laid between the
branches at Toddlesworth and Middlethorpe..and Mick, Big Mac and Paddy
were just the boys for the job. They worked hard from Monday till
Friday, drank hard all day Saturday and were too hung over to remember
Sunday. For his part, ever since he was old enough to wield a shovel, a
pick, and a pint glass Mick had believed a week consisted of six days
and the mother and father of all headaches.

Now Albert Stoic, the Mayor, was someone respected for his wisdom in a
crisis. If anyone needed to know anything about anything they asked
Albert.

True to form Fred, looking at the ungainly heap of inebriated navvies
slumped in front of him, asked the immortal question.

"What shall we do Albert?"

(See I told you everybody asked Albert.)

Albert crossed his legs and rapidly assessed the situation.

"What we 'ave 'ere is a crisis." he replied.

"What we're likely to 'ave 'ere damned soon is chapped legs." whined
Harold Snoad, crossing his.

"But what are we going to do about it?" asked Sam Fludgates..another
Committee Member, currently another one of the crossed legs brigade,
and another obvious believer in Albert's ability as the fountain of all
wisdom. The question, whilst not directly aimed at Albert, had an
inflection of tone betraying a need for Mayoral guidance.

"One." said Albert, assuming command.."Fred... Get your Elsie in the
ladies to make sure no-one's there. Two...Stand guard..Three..Don't get
caught in the stampede!..We'll sort the shamrocks out in a wee while."
(The emphasis was most assuredly on the WEE.)

Fred's good lady was duly posted as sentry and the committee made a
rush for it.

Fred, in the meantime, decided that shouting "Time gentlemen please!"
as loud as he could bellow coupled with ringing the pubs bell as hard
as he could might have desired affect of awakening the prostrate
paddies. It did not have the desired effect.

It DID have the un-desired effect. Councillor Snoad, fearing it was the
fire alarm, arrived at the loo door, trousers about the ankles,
realised his error of judgement, looked at Fred, threw an embarrassed
glance at Elsie, (who never batted an eyelid) and promptly about hopped
and dashed back into the loo, (insofar as one can given the present
state of undress.)

Muffled cries of anguish were coupled with phrases more distinct
like..."And you can get to the back of the queue an' all pal!!!"

Eventually the Committee members reappeared with legs in the normal
position (i.e. Parallel to each other) The Irish meanwhile had stirred
but their legs were still in their normal position (i.e. paralytic to
each other) Paddy was complaining he'd lost all feeling in his right
leg which is not surprising since it was Big Mac's left one he was
feeling at the time.

The Committee, by majority decision (duly minuted) decided that Fred
should call them a taxi.

Now at that precise moment, some three miles away in Toddlesworth,
young Clarence Bassett, a shy and sensitive undergraduate studying pre
Sumarian entomology was moonlighting as a taxi driver in the hols. to
enhance his meagre university grant. Little did the poor unfortunate
reprobate know of the fate that was about to befall him.

Authors Note:

Due to the fact that the aforementioned Paddies tended to lapse into
the vernacular on average at least once and more often than not more
than once in every sentence, the author felt it better to borrow the
censors "bleeper" from the B.B.C. Furthermore it is felt that the
remainder of this tale is best shown in dialogue and will be best
appreciated if the reader tunes in to simultaneous tri slurr-eo
sound.

Dispatcher:
Clarence. Go to the Wise Owl Tavern at Middlethorpe and pick up Big Mac
and the boys.

Clarence:
O.K. Guv, but how will I know 'im?

Dispatcher:
You cant miss 'im. Damned great big Irish fella, Nineteen stone, five
foot fourteen, if he's standin' up straight, which I doubt...with more
tarmac on his wellies than there is on the M6.

The scene now changes to the car park of the Wise Owl. Fred plus the
combined efforts of the Committee members have somehow managed to pour
the Paddies into Clarences' car.

Readers will doubtless have heard of the method of getting a donkey to
move by holding one carrot on a piece of string attached to a stick and
waving the said lure in front of it's nose. The same thing worked with
Big Mac, Mick and Paddy...Well almost. The principle is the same as
above except, one: delete "one" and insert "three". and two: delete
"Carrot" and insert "Bottle of Guiness." The aroma works wonders.

There was also a strong smell in the car which resulted from Clarences
sudden realisation of the predicament he was in.....Mind you it could
have been the Real Ale isation..... Eventually he summoned up the
courage....or was it the Worthingtons?...I digress....

Clarence:
Er...Where to gents?

Big Mac.
Does y'hear dat now boys..de man called us gentlemen...now I hasn't
been called a gent..well not since..not since...well the last time.
Driver, the (bleep) chippy.

Paddy.
Der (bleep)in' off licence.

Mick.
De (bleep)in' indinn..ininndinin..The (bleep)in' Curry 'ouse..

Clarence.
Where to first?

Big Mac.
The chippy.

Paddy.
The Off licence.

Mick.
T'e curry 'ouse.

Paddy.
Bejaysus we's not goin' to der (bleep)in' curry 'ouse...I want t'eat
some chips an' a bit o' cod...not that blinkin' vindy..vina..gototheloo
(bleep)in' stuff.

Mick.
Sure and (bleep)in' begorra why not?..but I'm (bleep)in' goin' past
t'off licence fer some (bleep)in' beer. T'is damned t'irsty work dis
drinkin' lark.

Big Mac.
For (bleep)in' eks sake Paddy Murphy will yer get yer hairy hands out
'n' stop feelin' round me (bleep). I (bleep)in' tol' yer I hasna nicked
yer (bleep)in' tenner. You (bleep)in' bet the (bleep)in' landlord that
he could'na tell yer what (bleep)in' colour der (bleep)in' t'ing
was...He (bleep)in' well tol' yer it were green 'n' won der t'ing fair
'n' square.

In the meantime Mick had been thinking. A slow, painful laborious, and
usually fruitless exercise...

Mick.
I don' t'ink youse can get (bleep)in' chips at der (bleep)in'
Indin...Indinianin...Curry 'ouse..Dey only sell dem dare (bleep)in'
Pompe,,Pompey..dem (bleep)in' flat (bleep)in' dumplins....

Paddy.
S'right Mick day do an' all..and dem (bleep)in' jappadies..I like dem
jappadies...

Clarence at that moment liked nothing to do with Paddies.

Big Mac.
Fer der (bleep)in' last (bleep)in' time Paddy (bleep)in' Murphy will
yer get yer (bleep)in' hands out and stop dis (bleep)in' feelin' round
me (bleep). I keeps tellin' yer I aint got yer (bleep)in' tenner...Now
will yer (bleep)in' siddown...Now look at yer, yer daft (bleep)...You's
spilled me Guiness down t'drivers trousers...Looks like he's (bleep)ed
hisself....

It should be noted at this point both that the taxi had not left the
car park and that the mere sight of the Wise Owl Tavern regulars
heaving Big Mac and the boys in the general direction of his hackney
carriage had made Clarence (bleep) himself several minutes
earlier.

Fate, however was about to take a hand. The taxi dispatcher, with a
queue of waiting calls and thus anxious to keep the taxis moving, and,
it might be said, somewhat anxious about Clarence's wellbeing, called
over the radio.

Dispatcher.
Base to Clarence. Come in Clarence....Where the heck are you? Have you
got rid of the dreaded Paddies yet?

Big Mac.
Dreaded Paddies! D'yous heres dat boys? Dreaded Paddies he called us.
We's just honest to goodness fare payin' passenger like all der rest.
Wha's'e mean insel. .insal..insulti...callin' us (bleep)in' names like
dat?
Listen here driver ...jus gimme dat dare micker. mikerophin...dat
t'ingy what you talks at..Dat man's gonna get a piece of my
mind...

Not a very big piece thought Clarence. The whole thing can't be very
big.

Big Mac. (to the microphone)
Now jus you (bleep)in' look 'ere..We's jus' a bunch o' Irish lads out
fer a wee drink... If yer not careful I'll stuff dis
micker...mikera...talkin' t'ingy right up yer (bleep). Now will yer be
(bleep)in' apologisin' yer (bleep) (bleep)....??

There was no answer. Not surprising really since Big Mac hadn't held
down the transmit button so the dispatcher hadn't heard the
question.

Big Mac. (in response to the silence) grabbed the microphone
again....
I know yer in dare somewheres......Y'ignorant (bleep)

Suddenly another radio message and the first of Clarences worst fears
were suddenly realised.

Dispatcher.
Clarence. Now don't let them Paddies muck you about...If they start
playin' silly (bleep)s ...charge 'em waitin' time.

Paddy.
S'all dat bloke ever (bleep)in' talks about...(bleep)in' money....Sure
I'll pay t'e (bleep)in' fare.

The second of Clarences worst fears was also suddenly realised. He felt
excruciating pain.

Fred the Landlord, who had watched from afar but, in his opinion, not
far enough was soon to have his worst fears realised as well. He saw
the three Irishman get out of the car an start staggering back towards
the bar.

Never, in the history of the Wise Owl had the "Open" sign been changed
to "Closed", and three locks a burglar alarm and a security chain been
set in such a short space of time.

Clarence, sensing his chance, drove away. The dispatcher called
again.

Dispatcher.
Don't let them blessed paddies muck you around Clarence. Make sure you
get their fare.

Clarence.
Don't worry guv'ner they paid me a tenner, I think.

Dispatcher.
What d'ya mean you THINK?

Clarence.
Well before they went back towards the pub, the one that's built like a
brick (bleep) rammed somethin' up back of me (bleep). I think it must
be a tenner. Well, anyway it don't 'urt enough to be a bottle
opener....