The Greasy Spoon - Metric Miles

—Morning Joe!

—Alright.

—Full of the joys of spring, as per usual.

—Piss off.

—Bloody hell, cheer up! Face on you like a smacked arse. What’s up?

—Bollocksed, ain't I? Two hours' sleep. Ceiling stared back at me all night.

—Ah. The old nocturnal staring contest.

—Yeah.

—Going to be a right barrel of laughs this morning, aren't we? One-word answers and heavy breathing.

—Get the coffees in, Bob. And shut yer cakehole. That’ll help.

—Right, hang on.

…

—Here you are, grumps. Get that down your neck.

—Ta.

—Got a bit of news that’ll put a smile on your miserable boat race. You know Ron Wheate? The gobby sod who props up the bar at the Larkin?

—Oh aye. The world's leading authority on everything. Can’t stand him.

—Well, Brenda was saying he was in here yesterday morning. Whingeing like a stuck pig about his piles.

—Wheate? The loudmouth?

—Yeah, spilling his guts to the entire room! Bellowing over the poached eggs! Said he’s got it so bad he has to carry an inflatable rubber ring cushion in a Co-op bag.

—Ron Wheate sitting on a giant rubber doughnut? You weren't lying, Bob. That has actually cheered me up.

—Thought it would! Mister Big Shot, sitting on thirty PSI of compressed air!

—Decent brew, this.

—Course it is. Brenda made it. Not that useless article Tracey.

—Tracey couldn't boil water without burning the kettle. Waste of wages.

—They pay her to look at her phone behind the till! Scandalous.

—See that Andy Burnham’s latest wheeze? Wants tourist taxes on hotel rooms. Taxing folks for going on holiday! Great idea or what?

—Well, they knock a quid off the bus fare to balance it out, don't they?

—Oh aye. That’ll tempt the Americans over to Coventry, won’t it? A cheaper number 12.

—You alright, mate? Gone quiet again.

—Bob.

—Yeah?

—That thing you just said about Ron Wheate.

—What, the rubber dinghy under his arse—?

—Keep it down! Shut up a second.

—What’s the matter with yer?

—The... metric miles.

—The what?

—The farmers. The grapes. The piles, you deaf bastard!

—What about 'em?

—I get 'em. Dreadful. Like sitting on a hot kettle. I’ve had to start putting the Andrex in the fridge.

—You put the bog roll in the fridge?!

—SHUT UP! Brenda’s looking! Keep your voice down!

—In the salad crisper next to the flora?! Chilled quilted two-ply?!

—It provides relief, alright?! It’s medical!

—Tell you what, mate...

—What?

—Christmas is coming up. I’ll buy you a puncture repair kit.

—Fuck off, Bob.