Stories by Louis Urbanowski

You’ll never guess what happened the other day.

I keep myself to myself, you know that. But when the taproom is as big as a postage stamp, what can you do?

It was on Thursday. I’d popped in for my usual swift half but the bleedin’ book club were in again. Queuing up one at a time, making a meal of it. So I was smart, two pints, efficient, me.

Yeah, I’ve seen the writing troupe a few times but I tell ya, I ain’t seen no pens. Always new members, always young and screechy. They do some readings sometimes but it’s all gibberish to me.

I’ve written. Loads, in fact. Mainly on Twitter, mainly to Tesco or British Gas, sometimes the trains. You tried to buy butter recently? Astronomical.

No, so I was minding my own business, working on my third drink, when he walks in. Yeah, him. I couldn’t believe it, but I recognised him straight away.

More smelt him, truth be told. I read that he soils himself, yeah, I hear he’s got a handler for his undies.

Anyway, he’s accompanied by some heavies, proper looking geezers with earpieces. None of them order a drink, they just crowd round the table. The reading group were all hushed. Much better.

Curious though, I thought why he was here. Lot on his plate right now. He’s oranger in real life too. Eh, should have called him Terry’s, right. You know, like Terry’s Chocolate Orange. Good one, that. Yeah, thanks.

So he sits down and I try not to listen, but my good ear’s facing them. He starts up, but not before a sip of cranberry juice. Bloody nora, cranberry juice.

He pulls that funny face he does and says, ‘I’m peaceful, I’m very peaceful, I’m probably the most peaceful guy you’ll ever meet. This war should have never happened. If I were here and not Joe then it would have never happened. We’re trying to get it ended.’

His hands don’t stop moving, waving, waggling around. He’s exhaling so much hot air the windows are steaming up. Paul’s put these little extraction fans in but they ain’t working. I told him I know a guy, but yeah, where was I. Do you want another one?

Right, so he’s still going and at this point the pen pals’ body language is well off. I know, I read a book on it once. Cross armed, cross legged, some cross eyed. Nursing their drinks.

All but one. Ian’s cracking on and he’s even trying to debate. He makes some good points about ceding land, sovereignty and a cracking analogy about NATO.

The big guy’s not happy though. He’s been overshadowed, which is impressive when you take up nearly two seats. He’s ranting and raving now. ‘We’ve had good talks, better talks than you, with Russia, with Ukraine, we won’t know for a little while, it’s a good deal, we’ll stop the war. They’re losing a lot of people, a lot of soldiers, mostly soldiers.’

He’s onto his third cranberry and I’ve had enough. He’s rambling, it’s obvious what he needs to do to fix it. You know me, I do keep myself to myself, but when he’s brought his problems into my patch, into my country, well he’s made me his foreign policy, ain’t he. That’s how I see it anyway.

I wander over, the heavies let me through, they don’t want none of this smoke. I sit down and I say,

‘Donald, sorry mate, I’m trying to enjoy a quiet drink here and you’re disturbing the poetry society.’

‘I know a lot about poetry…’

‘Zip it,’ I tell him, ‘save it for the UN. Here’s what you do anyway to get that muppet Putin and scruffy Zinchenko or whatever in line.’

And that’s it. I told him what to do. Obvious in hindsight, and it was all settled the next morning.

What’s that. What did I say.

Fuck me, I can’t remember now. How about you get another round in, it will come to me.
   

Inspired by the prompt: ‘Chats you wouldn’t expect to hear at the Writing Group’ – By Louis Urbanowski