What a Load of Rubbish Read Online Free PDF Page B

local alehouse on the outskirts of the town – to celebrate payday and the oncoming weekend.
    Late on a Thursday afternoon was always a noisy affair and sometimes, the celebrations – much to the delight of the landlord and his wife – would often carry on into the early evening. The till would not stop ringing, the fruit machines would not stop swallowingcoins and coughing-up the occasional jackpot – very occasional. Alcohol and meals were served, jokes were told with peals of exaggerated laughter and naughty songs were sung, with bags of enthusiasm but, sadly, not much talent.
    After work, Malcolm would pop in for a couple of pints; he liked the feel of the place, the buzz of the workers. Here, he felt, was somewhere that anyone could come to and have a laugh. But on this occasion, he noticed a different atmosphere. The juke-box still played, the fruit machine was still occasionally paying-out and songs were still being sung, things just felt different somehow. It was as though something had happened, or was about to happen. And nobody would tell him about it.
    “’Allo Geordie!” He saw his mate Geordie at the bar. A giant of a man from Newcastle, one of the drivers from the council works depot. “Where’ve you been, mate? I ’aven’t seen yer fer a good few weeks.”
    But he seemed different too. “Oh ’ullo Malcy, ol’ son – ’ow are ye, mucker? Ah’ve been away, in ’Umberside on a course, like?” his loud, sing-song accent cut through the din in the bar.
    “Oh aye,” Malcolm asked conversationally, “What course is that then?”
    At this Geordie stuck a finger in his ear and waggled it around. “What’s that? Ahcanna hear ye in all this racket, mon – we’ll talk later. We’ve gotta new wagon, like – cor, is that the time like?” He glanced at the clock above the bar. “Ah – look mucker. Gorra dash like! See ye later, mon.” And he pushed through the crowd in the pub and did not say another word.
    That’s funny, thought Malcolm, scratching his head, I didn’t know Geordie was hard of hearing. He was quite disappointed at his mate’s quick get-away. Maybe he’s got problems at home, because I know he’s got a couple of kids – an’ you know what an ’andful they can be.
    It was time to go home, to clean and maintain his equipment. Oh aye, an’ I’ll have to pop in to that cycle shop and get some more lubricant – oh yeah, an’ some more o’ them Sherbet Lemons for the kids…
    When he turned up at the depot on Friday – his barrow freshly lubricated, the galvanised bins buffed up and shining like a shilling – Gordon Bartholemew, who would usually greet him with a cheery wave and a patronising, “Good morning, Malcolm,” then vanish into his office for the rest of the day, on this particular morning announced that he could not stop, nor would he meet Malcolm’s eyes. Pointing at his watch and muttering something about a meeting he had toattend five minutes ago, he disappeared.
    Nobody, it seemed, had any time to stop and chat. Those workers who used the staff canteen, the people who would gather in the yard outside after breakfast – the people who’d stop and chat with Malcolm, before starting work – for some reason or other, had to be somewhere else.
    “Sorry Malcolm, can’t stop, I’m in the middle of an oil-change,” a garage mechanic excused himself and hurried away.
    “Mornin’ Malc. Got a text from Eckerslike upstairs.” The Fire Safety Officer raised his eyes. “Would you believe it, all the fire-alarms on the first floor are down.” The man was in an awful flap – and he was normally so calm. “Better go and see what’s up!”
    “Can I ’elp?” asked Malcolm brightly. “I’m I dab ’and with that sort of thing!”
    “No – no, it’s alright Malcy, better check them out myself, regulations you know – see you later.” And he was gone.
    Responses like this had Malcolm scratching his head; blimey, I was only offering to ’old his