We were in our favourite Worcester pub last night, before going for a gluten-free pizza in the best Italian restaurant in the city. A bloke comes in, sits down a few feet away and takes up space four could get in. A speciality of this pub [we are vegetarians in case you didn’t ask] is its large bowls of pork scratchings.
Fiddling with his phone in his right and, pint next to it, bowl of scratchings next to his left.
Fifteen minutes later the bowl is empty. He stopped crunching about four times to take a sip of his beer. The left hand was like a pump, feeding the mouth continuously with pig’s ears, balls and other bits. The noise was loud, the motion relentless.
Fifteen minutes of purgatory. I don’t know how he breathed during the onslaught. A nuclear bomb could have gone off next to him. The left hand, even if it was blown off, would have continued feeding the mouth. As a phantom limb even.
My will to live was ebbing away. I was kicking myself metaphorically like a demon to discover what I had done to attract this nightmare.
Anne was reading a book by Gordon Smith [brilliant psychic]. Didn’t even notice.
After the pig’s bits had gone, so did he. We too left 10 minutes later. As we left, I noticed the bastard had decamped into the front of the pub, which was now full, sitting on his own on a table made for four. No scratchings, just a note book this time.
Love the man, can’t work it all out. Never again.
Jack Stewart, 8th February 2015.