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Are All British Pubs Like This?


Snacko

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There's an old joke in the building trade, about a bricky who drives onto a house-building site looking to get taken on. After a couple of minutes the foreman comes out a shed and calls the guy over. 'I'm looking for a good bricklayer, he says, have you got your kit with you?' "Sure, says the guy, it's in my car" After a minute he comes back, carrying a four foot spirit-level and a large grip made of canvas and leather. Putting it down on a packing case between them he reaches into the pocket of his faded Levi's and comes up with a small key which fits into a brass lock that fastens the bag and, with a proud flourish, he pulls the bag wide open to reveal a very comprehensive set of the best tools available: chisels of the finest Sheffield steel; hammers with Kevlar handles; spirit levels from Germany; the latest laser range-finder for checking distances; you name it, he's got it all neatly held in place by loops of leather stitched into the sides of the grip. And bang-slap in the centre of this cornucopia is the prize piece - an American Marshalltown brick trowel, the holy Grail of brickies everywhere. B)

'That all looks good but do you know how to use that thing?, says the old foreman, pointing to the trowel. " 'course I do , says the guy, just watch this!"

Slipping off his suede bomber jacket to reveal a short-sleeved Ben Sherman shirt he bends down and releases the trowel from its fastenings, and then stands up with it flashing as he twirls it around in his hand like a drum-majorette's baton. Up over his head and into his other hand it goes, still spinning away, and while this is going on he slips a pack of Lambert & Butler's out of his shirt pocket, slides out a cigarette and flips it in between his lips. Then he pulls out a small silver case from which he slips a single red vesta, (or non-safety match to the uninitiated). Then he flips the trowel into his right hand and starts to swing his right arm around his shoulder, like a swimmer doing the backstroke, three times before releasing the trowel vertically into the air; point first and spinning around the long axis. :rolleyes: Up it climbs; ten, twenty, thirty feet before it stalls, drops into a flat spin and then starts to fall point downwards. Our hero reaches up with the vesta in his left hand and touches it to the shining blade as it passes head height. It all happens in a blur of speed, but the end result is the guy touching a burning match to his cigarette while he holds up the trowel in front of him to show the mark where the vesta scraped along the back of the blade from the tip to the heel. Then he tosses the spent match onto the packing case and flicks the trowel up and watches as it somersaults end over end and then plunges into the wood, splitting the match along its length and embedding itself, quivering, in the top of the packing case. :blink:

There's a cheer from the scaffolding where a bunch of guys have collected to watch the show and he turns to the foreman who has watched impassively all through..... "how's that then, and when should I start?"

Without replying, the foreman turns to the watching crowd. 'Get back to your jobs you bunch of slack-arsed bastards! Right now!' :angry:

'As for you mate, he growls, you can just sling your hook. I've already got half a dozen blokes playing these games when they should be laying bricks!'

'Why don't you try that new cocktail bar up the road? I hear they're looking for bar staff....' :lol:

and hey, Snacko, not ALL the pubs in Britain are like the film, thank goodness.

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All I remember from TGIs in Britain was the fairly decent hamburgers and steaks, but they really couldn't fix up a decent martini or old fashioned worth a damn. Of course it could be due to the quality of that particular barstaff. Good burgers at times, and the décor was quite agreeable, albeit slightly tacky.

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