The Greasy Spoon — 10th March 2026
The Greasy Spoon
Joe and Bob in the caff discussing ships, hospital appointments, football and piles
—’Ere he is, the grumpiest bloke in Cov. Alright, Joe?
—Did ya get the brews in or wha?
—I did. It’s ’ere, ya blind bugger.
—Ah, sorry, Bob. Me glasses are steamed up.
—It’s alright, mate. I ’ad to clean mine an’ all.
—At least it’s quiet in ’ere today.
—Came straight in and got the brews. No queue.
—Ace.
—That ship has sailed.
—Wha?
—Did ya see? We finally managed to get a ship out to sea.
—Oh aye, yeah. HMS Dragon left Pompy, righ’?
—Yep.
—Bloody embarrassing, that. Remember the Falklands?
—I do. We didn’t ’ave a problem in them days.
—Ay, you know that bloke I was tellin’ ya about?
—Er, which one?
—The one wiv the hernia.
—Oh yeah. Lives up by you—
—Yeah, that’s ’im. He got ’is appointment through.
—Go on. When is it?
—November.
—Wha?
—Yep.
—Fer fuck’s sake. Wasn’t he telling you he ’ad to buy bigger kecks?
—Yeah, that’s right. The lump’s so big, ’is old ones don’t fit.
—And he’s gotta wait til November?
—Yeah. He’s on about going private.
—Posh bugger, is he?
—Nah, not really.
—’Ow’s he gonna go private then? That’s for posh buggers.
—Dunno. Maybe he’s got some savings or summat.
—Mebbe.
—Psst.
—Wha?
—’Ere’s that old pair. Moaned their fucking ’eads off for half an hour. Remember?
—Oh yeah. The fat one was on about ’er piles.
—Yeah. An’ the other one was on about ’er husband’s bowels.
They both chortled and drained their brews.
—Another?
—Yeah, fuck it. Can’t be arsed to go ’ome yet.
—Right.
—Fuckin’ typical. Tha’ old pair didn’t know whether to ’ave a brownie.
—Oldies, mate. They probably don’t know what day it is.
—’Ere, good win for the Sky Blues on Saturday.
—Damn right. Away an’ all. Two‑nothing. I’ll ’ave that.
—Five points clear now.
—Blimey, she’s off again. Ran out of Anusol at her chemist’s.
—Bloody hell. There’s some things you don’t need to overhear.
—You nearly done?
—Yeah.
—Good. Let’s get out of ’ere before she starts on about ’er husband’s bowel movements…