No weddings, just a funeral

Early evening beer means the company of the proprietor’s daughter and the ubiquitous telly. A read of Ideal Granada, a chat with the coffee-drinking blokes in for a caffeine injection after work.

Sometimes, there’s news from the other world, you know, not Andalucia.

Sometimes our opinion is asked for, especially if the TV is blaring out something from under the cloudy skies of northern Europe.

 Carol, who’s that?

Swivelling my barstool around and inclining my head towards the screen, I spotted a picture of the recently departed Ms Geldof.

 – Bob Geldof’s daughter.

 Blank stares

– Is she famous?


– For what?

– Emmm, not sure. Because her Dad is.

– Who is he?

 – you know, from my Pueblo in Ireland. Boomtown Rats (quick pogo and a few bars of Rattrap)

 – Nope

-Yeah you do. Live Aid. Africa. Starvation. Give us your fookin’  money.

 Uh huh

– Well anyway, that’s his daughter, she died, only 25.

 – Why?

 – No idea, could hazard a guess, but whatever, it’s very sad. They’ve had their share of tragedy.

 – What’s her name?

 – Peaches

More blank stares

 Peaches….like, you know…Melocoton

 – Melecoton? For sure? Now, that is sad…………..