10. Jethro O'Toole

It is a balmy spring evening in the Salisbury and Alfie Hoole is deep in conversation with Jethro O’Toole. They are taking a much-needed break from the unseasonal hot weather, enjoying a few quiet drinks and the cool shade of the bar area.

There are few customers in the bar, most have settled in the secret beer garden and occasional festival venue to the rear of the premises. First-time visitors to the Salisbury often remark on their disorientation. The pub seems bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside until you go into the secret garden where it looks bigger on the outside than it does on the inside.  

It is said that the secret garden exists in its own hidden dimension beyond the generally accepted rules of time and space. But this only tends to be said by those who have imbibed too freely of the grape or the grain. Or those who smoke herbal cigarettes.

Aleister Crowley, the new temporary barlord is listening intently to what he considers an erudite and entertaining conversation. Between serving refreshments tries in vain to steer the conversation in the direction of occult and esoteric matters. Jethro is having none of this malarkey, he sticks to optimal crop rotation strategies and dairy cattle husbandry. He’s seen too much of this devil worshipping nonsense, the bored teenagers of New Mills from whence he hails have little else to do of an evening.

Farming is in his blood, a true scion of the land. Dressed in his jeans and woolly coat and sporting his black Stetson he mentally pictures himself riding over hill and dale on his faithful horse, surveying his land which stretches from horizon to horizon. His trusty Smith and Wesson is holstered. This is merely an orange plastic replica after that misunderstanding with Greater Manchester Police last summer.  

In reality, he is the second son of a farmer so will never get to own the farm and has therefore settled for a job with the council where he analyses the data on bin-fill levels so faithfully reported from his daily rounds by Kwacker Gasbags. He sometimes feels that life has treated him poorly but finds solace in the fact that it is indoor work with no heavy lifting.

This evening he was sitting alone, deeply troubled until Alfie walked in. He had heard on the grapevine that the council in their eternal drive to save money were considering automating the data for refuse collection. The bins themselves are to be reporting electronically their fill levels, rather in the mode of smart energy meters. He worries that his position will be made redundant. He also worries that Kwacker Gasbags will also be consigned to the Labour Exchange.

Alfie cheerfully pointed out that they would still need someone to collate the data, process it and manage the delivery to the actual refuse collectors. As for Kwacker, well the council will always need someone to go around and verify that the machine is doing its job accurately and to report issues back to the office. Machines break down all the time and data can be a tricky cove in the wrong hands.

Jethro still worried. It’s his nature.