1. Kwacker Gasbags
A few notes about people in the Salisbury possibly number one of an indefinite list. Meet Kwacker Gasbags. Kwacker was so named not because he farts a lot, indeed he farts no more and no less than the next person. Unless the next person is Farty O'Gutbucket who is known throughout the land for his noxious emissions.
No, Kwacker was so named because Mr and Mrs Gasbags liked ducks. And Japanese motorcycles. And disliked English spelling conventions.
Kwacker sits alone nursing his very small beer. He looks on longingly at the young people having fun. Kwacker doesn't have much fun these days. Kwacker has not had much fun in his life.
His day job takes him around the mean streets of Manchester where he spends eight hours every day estimating how full the litter bins are in order that the Street Cleansing Directorate may efficiently plan their emptying rota. He enjoys his job and has never been late in his 38 years.
Kwacker is a master of nine languages, nobody knows this as Kwacker has no friends and never speaks to anybody unless it is a mumbled "sorry" when ordered to "get out of the way you big galut".
Kwacker stands up, his 6' 2" frame seems shorter as he shuffles, towards the bar.
The barman exchanges his regular tipple, Arkwright's Owd Scrattler, for a handful of coins and he returns to his corner.
Occasionally Kwacker reminisces about the time 30-odd years ago when he had that brief but tempestuous affair with Florence McGimboid, a librarian from Stoke-on-Trent who had a hairy mole on her right cheek, strong breath and white blouses with curious yellow stains in the armpits. He curls his lip when he recalls the unfortunate sequence or events that led her to run away with that sheep farmer and ultimately die during the Falklands Conflict.
Kwacker drains his glass, buttons his threadbare coat against the chill night air and disappears in the direction of his home. An early night again so as to be fresh for the morning.
Goodnight Kwacker.
No, Kwacker was so named because Mr and Mrs Gasbags liked ducks. And Japanese motorcycles. And disliked English spelling conventions.
Kwacker sits alone nursing his very small beer. He looks on longingly at the young people having fun. Kwacker doesn't have much fun these days. Kwacker has not had much fun in his life.
His day job takes him around the mean streets of Manchester where he spends eight hours every day estimating how full the litter bins are in order that the Street Cleansing Directorate may efficiently plan their emptying rota. He enjoys his job and has never been late in his 38 years.
Kwacker is a master of nine languages, nobody knows this as Kwacker has no friends and never speaks to anybody unless it is a mumbled "sorry" when ordered to "get out of the way you big galut".
Kwacker stands up, his 6' 2" frame seems shorter as he shuffles, towards the bar.
The barman exchanges his regular tipple, Arkwright's Owd Scrattler, for a handful of coins and he returns to his corner.
Occasionally Kwacker reminisces about the time 30-odd years ago when he had that brief but tempestuous affair with Florence McGimboid, a librarian from Stoke-on-Trent who had a hairy mole on her right cheek, strong breath and white blouses with curious yellow stains in the armpits. He curls his lip when he recalls the unfortunate sequence or events that led her to run away with that sheep farmer and ultimately die during the Falklands Conflict.
Kwacker drains his glass, buttons his threadbare coat against the chill night air and disappears in the direction of his home. An early night again so as to be fresh for the morning.
Goodnight Kwacker.
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