The Song of Bert and Harry: Off the Record

“I’ve always loved it round here,” Harry confessed as they strolled through Victoria Park one sunny afternoon. “Hasn’t really changed after all these years. Remember when we used to play football here?”

“Ah yes, good days,” Bert replied. “I often think of Tommy Johnson… couldn’t get the ball passed him with that big boot of his.”

They were both silent for a moment.

“Don’t find children with polio wearing built-up shoes now, thank goodness,” Harry observed. “They weren’t necessarily the good old days.”

“True,” Bert agreed. “Some things are best confined to history.”

They continued strolling in silence.

“Remember fatty Fraser in goal?” Bert suddenly blurted. “I used to be in stitches at his antics.”

“Ah yes,” Harry agreed, “that time when he dropped his shorts and asked Tommy to check a pimple on his backside… then you fired off a 30-yard blockbuster, and the silly bugga tripped over with his shorts round his ankles while trying to stop it.”

The friends almost collapsed with laughter at the recollection.

“I miss those mates, those times, that camaraderie.” Harry was first to recover. “We were fit young blokes back then. Haven’t seen old Frazer for ages… I wonder how he’s doing?”

“I saw him with his missus last week at the council offices,” Bert replied. “She’s a sour-faced old biddy… didn’t like me talking to him. He seems to be doing Ok. Always was a big lad, of course, but he’s bloomin’ enormous now. Probably didn’t eat all the pies, but I think he had a good go at them.”

They both chuckled.

“What were you doing at the council offices?” Harry asked.

“I was trying to get them to fix my window,” Bert replied, “but this posh bloke left me totally bewildered. He kept on and on until I was feeling dizzy. Nice chap, mind you, with polite manners and a blue tie, but he wasn’t listening to what I was saying. Our Gordon couldn’t come and speak to him… he’s very good with these posh blokes.”

“Yes, they’re a difficult lot to deal with.”

“So I went to the neighbourhood office,” Bert continued, “but I couldn’t understand this foreign girl who was dealing with the paperwork. Lovely kid, mind you, with nice nails and long black hair, but I didn’t know what she was on about. They haven’t got a clue round there, though she did make me a nice cup of tea. Our Gordon came along and explained it to her… he’s very good with these foreign girls.”

“He’s a good lad is your Gordon. Did you get it sorted?”

“Yes, they sent a workman to fix it. I told them not to come too early, but he was here at 11 o’clock, so the missus made him a nice cup of tea, though he didn’t want a sandwich. He was one of those girlie-boys like you see on the telly. Decent lad, mind you, and he did sort the problem because it doesn’t stick any more. Our Gordon couldn’t come and talk to him…. he’s very good with these girlie-boys.”

“Aw heck, Bert,” Harry scolded, “you shouldn’t be describing people like that. Do you mean he was gay? That’s the modern expression.”

“Yes, that’s what I should have said… I sometimes get mixed up… didn’t mean it in a bad way. He was a good craftsman.”

“All sorted then?”

“Yes, and they sent an inspector to check it out. He was one of those Scottish men with an Irish accent that I can never understand. Charming fella, mind you. The missus went all silly when he spoke to her… don’t know what got into the daft old mare. He didn’t want a cup of tea, so she made him coffee, then he signed a report to say the job was completed in a satisfactory manner. Our Gordon just missed him… he’s very good with these Irish blokes.”

“What are you on about?” Harry asked with a frown. “Was he Scottish or Irish?”

“Err… not sure, they all sound the same to me,” his friend replied.

“You need to be sure about some things, Bert, or you’ll risk offending people.” Harry sighed. “All good with the repair then?”

“Yes. I tried to explain to our Gordon when he came round, though he doesn’t always listen to me. It wasn’t the window that needed fixing, just the hinges and the catch, but he didn’t know what I was on about.”

“Ah… I’m sure you convinced him.”

“He always seems to be visiting that Brenda Dabrovski up on Rutherford Street,” Bert bemoaned, “though me and the missus have told him she’s a bit of a flighty-one.”

“Oh dear,” was all Harry could respond with.

“I don’t understand why he always goes to see her after it gets dak,” Bert added. “I hope she makes him a nice cuppa tea.”

“Err… I’m sure she does,” Harry concluded. “Let’s have a quick pint at The Crooked House before we head back home.”