Pub Economics (Part I): The Invisible Hand

Tuesday

Following a tongue-lashing from an irate cabbie, I don’t intend to pass-off any fake banknotes for a while. Instead, I’ll be dealing exclusively in the new £20 bill, which features the 18th-Century economist, Adam Smith.

Smith pioneered the principle of ‘the invisible hand’. Contrary to conventional wisdom, this has nothing to do with the social benefits of self-interest. No, the invisible hand is actually the hand that repeatedly empties your wallet without your knowledge.

It’s also the hand that strokes your chin as you ask the question: ‘How the hell have I spent £70 on three pints and a taco?’

A Note Of Caution: I Know Where You Live

Monday 

Sadly, the £10 note in my wallet is a forgery. I know it’s a forgery because the sociopathic lesbian in Oddbins said so – and she’s never wrong, ever, particularly when it comes to deconstructing my preferred brand of oaky Chilean red. Furthermore, I understand that English currency typically features a portrait of the Queen, and not Leo Sayer.

Nevertheless, I’m confident my cab driver doesn’t possess a forensic eye for detail. Sure enough, he drops me at my front door and accepts the note without question.

‘What an idiot,’ I chuckle, stepping inside.

About three minutes later, the doorbell rings.

Lost And Found (Part III): A Pyrrhic Victory

Sunday 

In 280 BC, King Pyrrhus of Epirus masterminded unlikely victories over the Romans in battles at Heraclea and Asculum.

No mean feat, you might think. Unfortunately, it was utter carnage. In the end, only three of Pyrrhus’s guys survived, cheering joyously and giving each other high-fives in a field littered with mutilated corpses.

Spool forward 2,300 years – and history is repeating. On the one hand, I’ve been reunited with my wallet and scored points over the person who misplaced it. On the other, I’ve already bought another one, and cancelled six cards and a travel-pass.

Hardly a massacre, but still.

Lost And Found (Part II): Magnanimity

Saturday

Turns out the wallet isn’t in any of my pockets either. Despite this, I remain convinced my house-proud companion has hidden it during an over-zealous spring-clean. I’ve therefore spent the previous 24-hours rifling through cupboards and drawers, as if the spirit of Jack Bauer has entered me by way of Mrs Beeton.

My perseverance is rewarded. I eventually find the wallet behind a neatly-stacked pile of clothes in the bedroom wardrobe. It must’ve fallen out of trousers that she tidied away.

Pumping my fist, I whoop like a frat boy. ‘In your face, tidy woman!’

Oddly, tidy woman doesn’t respond.

Lost And Found (Part I): Misplacement Therapy

Friday 

An extensive sweep of the flat confirms my wallet’s missing. As is the norm in such circumstances, I refuse to accept it has been lost or stolen. Instead, I cunningly lie the blame at the door of the person who recently invited me out for dinner.

‘It was here,’ I insist, waving my hand about airily, in the manner of a 18th Century French courtier. ‘You must have tidied it away.’

‘No,’ she sighs. ‘You must have lost it.’

‘Never!’ I proclaim, punching the air defiantly, in the manner of a 18th Century French revolutionary.

‘Checked your pockets?’

‘Ah …’

Sir Douglas Bader: I Salute You (Part I)

Wednesday

Though I was once oblivious to the importance of wrists, I’ve never been in any doubt as to the importance of legs. Mine are nothing special – not in the Mary Hart league by any stretch – but they’ve always served me well, and I would (quite literally) be half the man I am without them.

I’m thus alarmed that my right leg has malfunctioned. The bloody thing inexplicably seized-up overnight, and now feels like it’s in the jaws of a ravenous bull-terrier, whose testicles are being whipped with a wet dishcloth.

Consequently, movement’s out, but onomatopoeic expressions of pain are in.

Horny Motorists: Beware Of Crossing Women

Tuesday

There are two schools of thought on men who honk car horns at women on the street.

The first is that they’re harmless rapscallions. The second is that they’re the product of a deranged scientific experiment, in which perfectly-preserved Neolithic corpses were excavated from a peat-bog, reanimated with a couple of jump leads, and handed the keys to a Sierra Cosworth.

One can’t say for certain where the lady walking ahead of me stands on this issue. However, the fact she cordially invites a horn-happy admirer to perform a sex act on himself with a marrow probably provides some indication.

How To Confuse Business and Pleasure

Monday

I’m at my desk when the phone rings. It’s the astronomer, calling to invite me out for a romantic meal. Naturally, I accept, before signing off in the usual way: ‘Bye darling. Love you.’

As soon as I hang up, the phone rings again. This time, it’s my boss. She immediately launches into a bloodthirsty tirade. I remain on autopilot throughout the onslaught, grunting periodically, hopelessly distracted by the prospect of an intimate candlelit dinner.

‘In short,’ the boss concludes, ‘I expect that report on my desk by morning.’

‘Right-o.’

‘Until tomorrow, then.’

‘Yes, until tomorrow. Bye darling. Love you.’

A Sixty-Something Irish Barmaid’s Guide To The Pubs Of Stoke Newington

Sunday

The Rochester

‘The punters are all half-dead. Remember Hungarian Joe? Drank there every day, died in his flat and nobody found him for five weeks.’

‘Who’s Hungarian Joe?’

‘Hungarian fellow. Went by the name of Joe.’

King’s Head

‘You joking? That’s where Ron was mugged taking a piss on a tree. Got hit on the head with a traffic cone. 6’2”, he is – which is a long way down. Should’ve seen him. Had eyes like a Chinese.’

Three Crowns

‘Staff just chat all the time. Can’t get a feckin’ drink.’

Pub We’re In

Another pint there, love?

The Wrong End Of The Telescope

Saturday

It is a beautiful night, clear and unseasonably warm. I’m standing outside a pub in South London with the sober voice of reason, gazing into the heavens. We are watching the lunar eclipse.

‘It’s magical,’ she observes.

‘Just you wait,’ I respond, eager to demonstrate my extensive knowledge of the cosmic ballroom. ‘We’re in the penumbral phase now, but the real fun begins when the moon enters the numbral shadow. It’s all about planetary alignment, you see.’

She looks at me sceptically. ‘So what casts the numbral shadow, then?’

‘Er, well, Mercury, obviously.’

‘Or the Earth, perhaps?’