Baz, Barnstaple, Cornwall.
Walking out of Barnstaple, we were jolly from our the first busk in some time. The town drinkers had been inspired to start singing, and we spotted them knocking out Aerosmith songs to slightly shocked shoppers. They had good, if slightly rough edged voices. They held the tunes, with animated delivery. As we were walking out of town, they ran after us with their hatful of money, laughing, saying they’d got enough for a cider each. They tried to give us a cut of the money, for reminding them of this old trick, but we said “hold onto it”. We wonder if they took this further, and started learning, arranging and practising songs, or if it was an afternoon’s fun and no more?
So right on the edge of town, after the main ring roads, we were feeling thirsty ourselves. We saw a dimly-lit, stained-window little pub on the edge of town, with a dirty old placard calling “Fine Food” and “Real Ale”. We were intrigued. It had steps going down.
It was much as we’d hoped, a rare pool of rich cultural life, a place of history, initiation, ancient codes and clan meetings. And, like such surviving places, it was mostly impenetrable to an outsider, an invisible tapestry of gestures, nods, jokes and gossip. It looked just like a grotty pub on the edge of town. That’s what living museums of folk culture look like.
So we had our ale, and sat for a while talking. After perhaps an hour of nursing the pint, a fellow came over and started to chat. He told us a number of things, and we said some too.
Attempting to be plain with what we find, we will say now: the following may be deemed blue literature, a dirty story, and perhaps unsuitable for those of a tender disposition or young age. “Consult your Guardian”.
It is a story concerning a man and his love. He told it to us in his home, as he drank steadily into the night. He said it was alright to write it down, and we found it on a scrap of paper the other day. We really liked it. His tale had been mapped roughly in short sentences, so it turned out like poetry.
He had met his true love five years ago, and was living in a new happiness he had not previously known. But they lived separately, and she was on holiday, so he was free to entertain walking fellows.
They had met after 50 years of growing in different directions, of becoming less likely to meet. But they met, and…here it is:
Met, 8 months argue.
Will you come for a drink, she says, talk quiet?
I don’t drink coffee.
I’ll buy you beer.
She’s Buddhist, I’m pagan, it’s a way of life.
She’s ½ million pound house, I’m a flooded bordello
I’m a tramp, she’s the princess.
She likes it that way, but she don’t keep me under.
She got all the worries that go with it.
I got none. You want to wreck the place
Go on, fuck you. Don’t like it? Fuck off!
So we talk. She says “why no drink beer?
I down it. “Now where?” I say. She takes me
To car, we talk four hours. You gonna
Shag me? “Not here in car” I says. Un-
comfy. She takes me to hers. I say, “well,
That’s it over”. She says “no, you laugh and joke and
Keep me happy.” Watch a few sunsets.
“You’re genuine. You’re real, you’re what I ain’t got.”
She’s got 36G tits, leaves her
Underwear round. We’re over 50, get free
Viagra. Gotta grab it, you can make £40 a pop.
She says “you love me, I don’t love you”
Months later she says “I love you”. I say
“I don’t.” But we both do, I know.
I take her home, she says “you scruff ass”.
On the kitchen table, I take her. She
Wants to, she likes that.
Her friends say “why you with him?”
She says “you can all fuck off”, and she doesn’t swear.
I feel good, I got a woman, she’s
Strong, & she’ll have teeth marks
In her arse tomorrow night.
52. Still fucking horny.
