I was walking along the other night and passed by the Golgotha. I hadn't been in that shithole since long before the Interruptnum. It had been, however, the site of many heroics at the oche, always amidst tsunamis of Toby lager. Nagged by nostalgia, I decided to take a tour inside. Sitting at the bar with my Stella Artois (Toby, who's that?), I looked around the room. And there he was, finishing up his early evening athletics by burying a bunghole. Still the pub superstar, still the hero of the Golgothiad. Semi-violent crime had not been good to Keith, it seemed. After wrestling his lances out of the ale encrusted cork, he passed by the bar. "When I get my wing straightened out, I'm taking you down Keith". The legendary arrowman looked at me, no recognition registered. "Yeah, cheers". He noticed the book on the bar - A History of Histories. "Heritage, innit".
Keith Talent then left the Golgotha, climbed into the same royal blue Cavalier. It needed a new muffler, just like it did ten years ago.
Good one Fish Eye. Don't know if I quite understand it, but I do have a cold and I ain't gettin' any younger. Golgotha? Who's that? Any relation to Caligula?
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ReplyDeleteFEL,
ReplyDeleteGlad to learn that you avoided the salami.
And, as I remember it, that Keith sure was a dart board wizard! He had such a subtle wrist.
Nostalgia can be a real ol' nag. How do you think she does it? I don't know. Maybe it's time for a post on nostalgesics.