Ageing gangsters, Mafia bosses, or perhaps leaders of warring factions of the elderly population.  Two old men, one at each end of a long bar.  They ignore each other, pretend the other doesn’t exist, a bizarre and pointless rivalry.  I witness this daily, the contrast between these two rogues is intriguing.
At one end of the bar the gentleman sits upright.  With his huge forehead and high hair he looks like a cross between Beavis and a toothbrush.  His skin is taught, doll-like, and his mannerisms stiff, like a mannequin.  He drinks Peroni, always in a polo-neck, Italian heritage surely?  People come, people go, all acknowledge him and stop to shake his hand.  All apart from his opposite number.
The gentleman at the other end slouches, slumped in his chair like a giant reclining slug, a giant reclining slug in corduroys.  He holds a paper close to his face, just inches away, turning a page every ten minutes or so, a slug reading at a slug’s pace.  No Peroni for this one, he drinks real ale. Makes sense, I guess, everyone knows slugs favour real ale.
Not once have I seen them acknowledge each other, exchange weather predictions, moan about the youth of today or even wave from their respective ends of the bar.  Every so often they pass on route to and from the toilets (elderly bladders) yet even then they pretend the other does not exist.
Beavis and Slug, stoical to the extreme.  But one day there’ll be a gunfight and I intend to be here to witness it.

Ageing gangsters, Mafia bosses, or leaders of warring factions of the elderly population. Two old men, one at each end of a long bar. They ignore each other, pretend the other doesn’t exist, a bizarre and pointless rivalry. I witness this daily, the contrast between these two rogues is intriguing.

At one end of the bar the gentleman sits upright. With his huge forehead and high hair he looks like a cross between Beavis and a toothbrush. His skin is taught, doll-like, and his mannerisms stiff, like a mannequin. He drinks Peroni, always in a polo-neck, Italian heritage surely? People come, people go, all acknowledge him and stop to shake his hand. All apart from his opposite number.

The gentleman at the other end slouches, slumped in his chair like a giant reclining slug, a giant reclining slug in corduroys.  He holds a paper close to his face, just inches away, turning a page every ten minutes or so, a slug reading at a slug’s pace.  No Peroni for this one, he drinks real ale. Makes sense, I guess, everyone knows slugs favour real ale.

Not once have I seen them acknowledge each other, exchange weather predictions, moan about the youth of today or even wave from their respective ends of the bar.  Every so often they pass on route to and from the toilets (elderly bladders) yet even then they pretend the other does not exist.

Beavis and Slug, stoical to the extreme.  But one day there’ll be a gunfight and I intend to be here to witness it.





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