You cannot keep a good man down

happy place in which to have the indulgence in.
If you did then you certainly had a better time than us blighters at the usual place.
Although we have been drinking steadily, in fact rather more than usual, we have not been experiencing much of the expected resultant good cheer.
You must understand that Bra Gee is not personally affected but I have only been drinking and feeling all blue and melancholy in solidarity with worried comrades.
You see, the beginning of the year of 2011 has not been kind to the regulars and we are beginning to wish it would end rather fast so that we, (those fortunate enough to survive it) can put it all behind us.
Death has struck again before we have even had a chance to properly recover from the mighty hangover brought on by my namesake George’s long and wet wake.
Speaking of which, his daughter has promised us a memorial service that will start on Good Friday and run uninterrupted till Easter Monday.
Just goes to show that even if you bury him six feet under you can never keep a good man down.
George was a capital fellow alive and even in dying he is still making sure that we, the regulars who were his mates continue to remember him as oft as we shall drink.
But back to the topic, and the latest cause of our lamentations which is a beautiful woman or perhaps I should say a former beautiful woman. This past week we laid to rest one of the female regular patrons of our bar. Although she was a very familiar face in the pub I hesitate to call her a sister.
Over the years the regulars have evolved a culture in which the title ‘sister’ is strictly reserved for fellow drinkers of the feminine variety who hold their place with pride when it comes to calling for the next round and paying for it.
These sisters are generally professional women although we have some self-employed ones. In some cases they might choose to supplement their incomes in supine positions.
It is only through Chinese whispers that we hear that some of the sisters sell some intangible goods at night in exchange for hard cash. But they never do it in the usual place so if anyone accuses them of witchcraft we who are close to them are prepared to vouch for their innocence even if we do have a few questions ourselves.
But not this late one, Gire short for Gracious. Misnamed, for the woman was rowdy and uncouth, she openly plied her trade in the usual place and some of the regulars often sampled her wares.
Unfortunately last year things started to look very dim for the lady and before she died last week she warned all those she had dallied with to make sure that the wire in their blood is not rusting.
When news of her demise reached the usual place there was much woe, though I am convinced that most of it was for the living rather than the deceased.
Hard to describe the dismal proceedings that took place as a funeral. It was the opposite of George’s lavish farewell party.
A person who would not stop talking beyond his speech went on and on about how the wages of sin are death and how Gire had wasted her life in the worst company that a human being can choose.
He took a good thirty minutes to carry out a vitriolic attack on alcohol and how it cut promising lives short as if those who have never taken a sip of alcohol do not die.
I expect that the idiot expects to leave the earth in a fiery pillar like that Elijah fellow one of these days instead of curling up and dying like us sinning drinkers.
Good luck to him. If he goes before I do, I will make sure that I dance on his grave, the son of a gun!
After that long harangue you would expect the family to have shown their appreciation of our turning up for the funeral with a decent liquid but the only wetness we got came from the drizzle which kept at it the whole time.
No wonder why the regulars have not been able to shake off their despondency.
That was a funeral designed to put you off dying especially coming on top of the other depressing aspects of Gire’s death.
Like I said at the beginning, Bra Gee is not personally affected but has just caught on the air of gloom that is pervading the usual place as many regulars seem to be regretting some decisions taken some time ago.
Paul who has been away for a visit to London has tried to cheer the bar with talk of how he has been negotiating with the Barclays Premier League to convince them to bring some of the best English soccer games to be played live at the National Sports Stadium.
He might have been saying that he is bringing over the Canadian national cricket team for all the excitement he generated from the normally avid soccer fans in the usual place.
Even Taurai’s assertion that Paul has been languishing at home these past weeks, and if he saw anything resembling snow it was the frost in his fridge, as he does not even own a valid passport, has failed to spark more than a lazy wave of interest.
But his whisper that Officer once took Gire to his place for a whole three days has generated a lot of speculation.
Suddenly we have all started noticing how Officer is melting like a bar of chocolate left in the sun.
His blood has been tested, x-rays of his chest taken and the prognosis is that he will be lucky to see the end of the cold season.
All this medical diagnosis has been miraculously carried out within the confines of the usual place without the totally irrelevant consultation of qualified personnel and their expensive and fancy machines.
Who needs a doctor or a lab when they have their own two eyes which can see the facts staring them in the eye?
The very same kind of two eyes that can visualise a large wild cat in the middle of a residential area before it disappears into the thin air before making a rapid pit stop in a shoe.
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