 Home Page |
 Article Library |
 |
|
|
|
By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere were we're welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. Now I know you wont believe me, but among the regulars we have a trainee Village Idiot. To say his simple would be putting it mildly, more like a sandwich short of a picnic. But to illustrate the tricks he can get up too, let me tell you about the saga of the front room oil well. I think it was It was Jerry who in a moment of pure genius first suggested the idea. Perched on a rickety bar stool in the public bar or the Traveler's Rest, He had spent the previous hour, moodily gazing into his pint of black nectar. Only abandoning his contemplation to grunt a greeting to fellow early evening drinkers as they entered. Soon, certain now that he had a receptive audience, Jerry looked up and said to no one in particular, "I wonder if it would work." "Would what work Jerry," came the expected collective response. "Whether we could get our trainee village idiot to dig for oil," he said. "Never fall for it" muttered our friendly landlord Jack, slowly pulling another pint, holding it to the light before setting it lovingly on the counter. "Oh yes he would" grinned Tom, reaching out for the glass, "all we have to do is to flower the idea with just a grain of truth." So for the rest of the evening the great Brentwood Oil Field hoax was hatched, which like all the best hoaxes contained that vital grain of truth. Now it should be explained that among us dedicated boozers. We number Charles a lad of limited intelligence, who aged around twenty five, is somewhat short of the old gray matter. Indeed to say he's as thick as two short planks would be putting it mildly. And being very suggestible, it was not surprising that he has become known as Brentwoods trainee Village idiot. By the time Charles hove into sight the following evening, his hoaxers were ready and waiting. The first sign that trouble ahead was in store for him, came when Pete -never one to lash out on booze for others, brought him a drink, muttering from the side of his mouth that from what he had heard. If Charles looked sharp about it, he could be in for a vast amount of dosh. As Charles, was a regular customer of the towns so called Job Center, this was news indeed, considering as how his income was being paid out of the generosity of the Government. "how do you mean," he said, wiping his lips from the pint glass how half empty. "well," went on Pete starting to trawl in his catch, "from what I hear, there's a chance of oil under the town center," For Charles, living alone in a cottage in the town center, this had the sound of easy money. "how do they know there's all this oil under the town," he asked "Ah, it's like this." explained Pete, leaning over confidentially. "You know they found all that sand when they dug the foundations for the multi story car park don't you." A wise nod was the only reply from Charles, "well when they heard about it the oil companies got interested as they reckon that there could be oil under all that sand. and if there's oil under the car park, it will be under your cottage as well. You just have to dig for it." But, he continued conspiratorially, " you had better look sharp about it, as I hear they are bringing in the experts next week." "But how do they know all this," muttered Charles by now almost convinced. "Simple," said Pete, "go to the Middle East, and where do you find the oil." he asked, jabbing a by now fascinated Charles hard in the chest. - "in the desert mate, Bloody stuff bubbles up all over the desert. And what," pushing his point home asked Pete, "does all that desert consist off, I'll tell you mate,.. Sand. And where there's sand, there's oil." Pausing only to drown another pint, a by now thoroughly impressed Charles vanished into the night, leaving behind him, once he was safely out of the way, gales of laughter as the rest of the pub was let into the joke about the possible great Brentwood oil strike. Now our idea had been to put the lad out of his misery the following evening, but come the next evening, and nowhere was Charles to be seen. Indeed he didn't put in any of his regular appearances to the Traveler's Rest for the rest of the week, nor was he to be seen around the town. So by the time a fortnight had passed the gang were becoming rather concerned for his health. Where was he, was it all right ?. someone would have to pop round to his cottage to find out. The short straw was drawn by Jim, and as the one elected to pay the visit, he duly vanished into the night, a couple of cans of larger in hand for what everybody thought would be a sick Charles. Now as Charles lived within minutes of the pub, we reasoned that Jim would not be too long on his mercy mission. So it was with bated breath we all sat around drowning points of Landlord Jacks IPA. awaiting his return. He was not long in returning. Bursting in through the door to the amazement of the assembled gang, staggering towards the bar, convulsed in laughter. "Give us a pint quick Jack," he yelled, the tears of mirth streaming down his face. "So how is the dear boy" wondered Pete. "You don't know what you started mate," laughed Jim. "all that talk of yours, about oil under the town." "Well do tell dear boy," inquired Pete. "When I found his house," said Jim, by now the pubs center of attention. "the lights were on all right, but it took a fair bit of banging on his front door to get any reaction. Even then," went on Jim, "it took him all of five minutes to get the door open." It seemed that Charles was not all that keen of allowing anyone in, "go away I'm busy," he said through the half opened door. "Oh stop playing around Charles," Jim had said, "come on let me in." Eventually he had, and what Jim had found had the pub roaring again with laughter. For it seem that the living room was in chaos, Furniture piled high in one corner, half a dozen buckets in another. The carpet pulled back, and surrounding the ripped up floorboards and a deep hole, piles of earth. Charles fully living up to his reputation as the towns trainee village idiot, had it seemed had taken Pete's tall story to heart, and had been industriously digging away for close on a fortnight, fully expecting to strike the first oil of the Brentwood oil field.
|
|
Home Page |
Article Library |
|