Having long ago taken early retirement, Arthur and Gordon have nothing better to do than sit in
the pub all day, and put the world to rights. And really, is there anything better to do? Their
conversations range from politics to science to the weird ways of women.. And the even weirder
ways of the Americans.
In the past, both have held managerial jobs, Gordon in a bank where he proved the Peter principle
by being promoted way past his level of competence, and Arthur something in the City, though
what that was we never learn. Well educated and middle-class, both are well-spoken, rarely letting
an oath escape their lips.
Of the two, Gordon is the more laid back, offering a calm and sometimes mordant counterpoint to
Arthur's more volatile approach to life. Whereas Arthur has strong opinions, which he tops up every
morning from the newspapers, to Gordon only himself and Arthur and the pub are real. I mean,
really real.
Arthur's normal state is one of outrage. If he had a moustache, it would bristle constantly. Having
endured the tyranny of wearing a suit, shirt and tie all his working life, he has now rebelled by wearing
a cardigan, shirt and tie. He and Thelma are subject to crazes, sudden enthusiasms which are
embraced whole-heartedly, sometimes for as long as a day or so.
Both are married, Arthur to the long-suffering Thelma, who is roughly a yard wide, while Gordon's
Bridget seems to be eternally away with her best friend. Or so she says…
Both are a-political, regarding politicians of all colours and shades as pompous, slippery, corrupt
windbags, who are in politics only to cosy up to corporate bosses long enough to be rewarded with
huge salaries when they have fleeced the tax-payer for long enough and retired.
A Note to my American readers:
I am an English writer. These pages are written in English. The spelling is English --
for instance, the word "colour" is spelled as Jesus would have spelled it when he rode into
Jerusalem on a dinosaur, all those years ago. The humour herein, what little there is of it, is English humour.
If you don't get it -- weep. Weep scalding hot, salty, bitter tears because you're not one of God's
chosen few. Weep hard enough (and admit that your piddling little revolution has failed), and we
just might take you back and let you become our forty-first county.
Neither Arthur nor Gordon have visited our former colony. Their sometimes scabrous observations --
obviously recorded by the C.I.A. (as are we all) have entered them high on the no-fly list. The fact
that they are unable to come to the States is why they drink in the pub all day. They have to celebrate
somehow.
Like myself, the pair of them have come to regard Americans as creatures better viewed in a zoo.
Not necessarily behind bars -- neither would wish to be unkind -- but possibly wandering freely
in some kind of National Park, like Kenya. With wardens or some form of adult supervision.
And to those Americans who think it might be fun to read these immortal lines aloud, believing you
can do an English accent -- forget it.
You can't.
© Leonard Morley 2009