Chapter 9
The next evening it was the old workman who was selected by George to tell a story.
As usual, the fire was burning brightly in the bar grate, the company were assembled comfortably round the fire-side table, drinks stood in front of them, and the barman was attentive for the inevitable further orders. Mrs, Smith, less and less reluctant to tolerate the company as time went on-partly no doubt on account of the good money she was making from the table, and partly through her own interest in the different stories-had now arranged a seat at the corner of the bar from which she would not miss a word. Nor did she refuse to be included in each round, so that, on the whole, the company each evening was a lively on as it got near to closing-time. The barman, who had a permanent erection now every evening, also accepted the free drinks which came his way without hesitation or reference to Mrs. Smith, and did his best not to miss a word of any story occasionally he disappeared into the lavatory to masturbate away his over-heated reactions to the things he had heard but the companya broadminded-one, it must be admittedunderstood this necessity and noone was cruel enough to carry on a story during his absence. By now all the members of the company were known to one another by their Christian names, and it might be as well at this point to make the names clear, so that the reader should not be confused.
George, the dwarf, Ella, the dwarf's girl-friend
Gerry, the Major
Muriel, the Major's companion
Elsie, the woman customer who had become drunk during her story
Anne, the other woman customer, Alfred, the youngish clerk
Tom, the old workman, Mick, the barman, Bettina, Mrs. Smith.
Tom, the workman, now took half-a-pint swig at his pint, and began his story. You see, began Tom, it's not how I might be like any of you here. The difference is that, at my age, there's nothing doing any more with the old whatyer call it, that is the flibbertygibet, or if ,you likes to put it in the Queen's English, the perishing old weapon of war, or what you might even call cock. In fact, it's no shame to admit that at my age the balls is no more than a couples of pieces of decoration, like the velvet knobs you get at the bottom of curtains, and as for my cock even if the Queen herself took herclothes off and, unknown to the king took a taxi and suddenly slipped into my bed, with the command: Get up you old beast, the darned thing still couldn't manage it. In fact you might now call it, if you had the misfortune to see it at all, a sort of shrivelled tube which is too tired out even to run the piss out properly.
Still, let's get to the point. After all, you're not gathered here to learn what you might look like and feel like in your old age. What you want to hear is the sort of story that's going to wet the lady's cratche, and make the gentlemen's weapons stand on end.
Mind you, in my own way, I've got a lot of pleasure out of hearing all you youngsters, male and female, talking about your juicy goings-on, and I've liked the drinks and the fire and the company, as you might say. So I reckon it wouldn't be really right to tell you the sort of story that's likely to leave you all cold, and for that reason I'm going to go back a few years in my life, in fact about fifteen if I remember rightly, to the time when my missus was still alive.
Now at that time we was running a farm in Kent. The kids we'd had had either married themselves and more or less disappeared, or died in the war; or didn't want to have much to do with us, so there we were, in this farm, all on our own, both of us getting older, and the money from the farm not being so good that we could employ all the labour we wanted. I used to do most of the rough work myself, and the old woman did the milking and things like that. Now, though I never said much to her in public like, and never made a great fuss of her even in private if you know what I mean, I did inside me have a soft spot for the old girl, and it used to hurt me to see her sighing and holding her joints ass he bent down to milk the cows each morning. Now one day, as it was nearing her birthday, I slipped off to Canterbury, and went into a farm machinery shop and said to the girl there: Now, what have you got, miss, in the way of these new-fangled cow-milking machines which will save my old woman breaking her back every morning? That's easily enough avoided, sir she said, we've got automatic milkers for every kind of cow. Well. I had a look round the place, and I picked out what I wanted. How many pints a day does your cow yield, asked the girl. Apparently it depended on the milk output of your cow, which strength of machine you took. 50 pints a day, I said. The girl got out the right model, I paid for it in hard cash, and off home I went.
I meant to keep it as a surprise for the old woman's birthday, but seeing it was only a few days away, I thought I might as well save her the extra bending down in between. That evening I unwrapped the package, and put it on the table. There you are, old girl, I said, that should make your life easier, eh? She admired the machine, and she seemed very pleased with it, which I wasn't surprised at considering price the darned things cost. Next morning very early just as she was going off to the cow-shed she said. But I don't know how it works, Tom. Well, as it happens, I was still in me night-shirt, and me old cock was just hanging outside the edge of the shirt.
The old women, by that time of her life, didn't take it inside very often, though she used to toss me off whenever I wanted it.. By a stroke of what you might call coincidence I wanted it that morning, and the old cock was even standing up a bit, like a dog begging. Look here, girl, I said to her, supposing as how we try one of the tubes on my cock, that will learn you how to use the gadget on the cows, and it will give me a bit of pleasure at the same time.
Well, she didn't abject to that, and we put the tube on me doings, and set the machine off. I must say it had a lovely pull, and it did its job in no time. I've .finished now, I said, you can turn it off. Me missus begad fiddling around with the machine, but she couldn't find the knob to switch it off. Then I had a go, because I can tell you that, by that time what with me having already come, and me spunk being drained away as it were, it wasn't none too comfortable, the machine still going away at me doings. Well, I couldn't find the darned switch either. Then we had a look at he printed instructions, but it said everything there except how to turn the ruddy thing off. By that time the thing had finished me off a second time, and t was still going strong. Look here I said to the old woman, you get through to Canterbury, got through to someone there, there's bound to be someone on duty even at his time of the morning, and find how the thing can be turned off.
While me missus was on the phone the thing had made me come a third time, and it wasn't as much pleasure as pain I can tell you for an old man, and was was now busy tossing me off a fourth time. Each stroke of the tube was painful, and me cock had swollen up so that even me own mother wouldn't have recognised it. I tried to get out of the tube every way I could, but the grip inside it just wouldn't let me go. Up and down it went, up and down, up and down. Then, thank the Lord, the old woman came back from the phone. Well? I said. It was the night man on duty, she said. He said it switches itself off automatically when it gets to fifty pints...
(The company round the fireside burst into loud laughter).
After that, said Tom, I got the old woman to bring a chopper, and we just smashed it up.