Folk/Shanty Singers and Where Is Prof Stephen Hawkings When I Need Him?

I enjoy Sundays. Gives me the chance to get across to my local boozer, away from the wife and kids and spend a couple of hours reading the Sundays and having a couple of pre-Sunday lunch liveners. This has been a ritual for me on most weekends for the last four or five years. Up until a couple of weeks ago, it was an enjoyable pasttime and I got to have some intelligent conversation outside of the usual work-related guff. However, the relaxation has been spoiled somewhat by the recent arrival of three twats, a guitar, a penny whistle and a accordion. Their arrival coincided with the landlord's hospitalisation and his temporary replacement by a bog-eyed, gobshite, relief manager.

Apart from their instruments, the three twats are also in possession of straggly, unkempt beards, long fuzzy hair in pony tails, peaked fishermen's caps and a sandals/black nylon socks combo. Within three weeks and with the tacit approval of the relief manager, they've emptied the Saloon Bar every Sunday with their out of key wailings in faux Irish/Cornwall fisherman accents and badly played instruments. The relief gobshite just stands behind the bar tapping his feet with a look of fawning, nay orgasmic, adulation whilst various regulars scramble out the door.

I was in a less than a good humour today when, just as I sat down with a pint and the Torygraph, the twats breezed in. Ordering their normal 'two diet cokes, a white wine Spritzer and three packets of Prawn Coctail' they started arranging the bar stools to take up as much fucking room as possible and got out their 'cat strangling' kit. Not wanting to hear yet another horrible rendition of Dirty Old Town and with hangover eyes and post lash-up jarred nerves, I asked them why they found it necessary to come into a quiet pub in Surrey, which has no links to seafaring/fishing, is nowhere near a major fishing town or port, and subject innocent punters to their truly appalling screaming.

'Because we like the music. It's our history', chirrupped Twat Number One.
'I like wanking', says I. 'But I wouldn't dream of banging one out in a pub bar. Not on a Sunday morning, anyway. And where does your history come in? You told everyone last week that you're a fucking panel beater from Hersham.
When was the last time you put to sea?'

'It's cheering', says Twat Number Two. 'People get to gel together if there's a good tune going on in the background'.
'Cheering?', asks I dumbfounded. 'Every song you try to sing is about fucking shipwrecks, drowning on the Cornish rocks or the Plague and pestilence! You can't fucking sing, you forget the words and you can't play. As for getting everyone to gel, haven't you noticed that of the dozen or so people who were here when you walked in, everyone but I and sleepy Ken in the corner, has done a runner into the Lounge?'

'If you don't like the entertainment, you can always ask us to leave', harrumphed Twat Number Three.
'Fuck off, then', I retort gaily.


'Are you going to fuck off, or what?'. I ask pleadingly.
'We're going', says Twat Number Two and begins packing his accordion into a Lidl plastic shopping bag. 'But I've got to say that we've never been treated so badly anywhere. We don't get paid for this, you know!'.
I nearly choked at that. "We don't get paid for this". No shit Sherlock! Then, in the midst of my choking, Sleepy Ken awakes and speaketh from the corner: 'You fucking liar! You three got turfed out of the Three Feathers a couple of months ago when that Muppet (pointing at gobshite relief manager) was standing in for John while he was in Tenerife. And you got a slap. So don't act all offended and just fuck off out of it'. He then settles back down to his snooze.

Whilst I don't feel particularly proud of pointing out the limitations of the Three Twats' singing and playing to them, or in the manner in which I spoke, or my naughty thoughts of dry bumming them with the leg of a bar stool, I'm still left with the lingering questions: Who or what are these people? Where are they from? Why are they allowed to exist? Can they not be rehabilitated in some sort of Community Care Home? And why the fuck do tourists flock to hear them warble in shitty Irish pubs?

Let Stephen Hawkings come up with a theory for that one.

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