It's THAT time of year again. You know, when people live, eat and drink Christmas. And to be quite honest, Tony and me find it all so very tiring.
There we were in the pub last night, discussing the finer points of world politics, the Arsenal match, and saying how great our pizzas had been (I had a chicken special and Tony went for an Hawaiian), when some sad bastard decided to put White Christmas by Bing Crosby on the juke-box. Tony asked Sid the landlord if the offender could be ejected from the pub, on the grounds that people like us shouldn't have to put up with such slushy crap, whilst knocking back vast amounts of lager and whisky. Sid understood our plight, but said that everybody was entitled to choose what music they listened to, and as the customer is always right, there was nothing he could do about it.
The boy Tony reckons that Bing Crosby is right up there with alchohol-free lager and fish burgers when it comes to things that should be avoided like the plague.
I reckon Tony is right, and so when the offending customer's next song he chose to play was Last Christmas, by Wham, I think he had every reason to unleash a tirade of foul-mouthed abuse.
The customer got the message, and after finishing his glass of orange juice, made a hasty exit.
To be fair, Tony has more or less got his violent temper under control, thanks to the anger management course he attended last year, but as he said, Bing Crosby and Wham would test the patients of a saint, and so he had no regrets in giving the customer a dose of the Tony Joy treatment.