The woman on the next table is angry about stuff. All stuff. Everything that constitutes stuff has anger aimed at it from this woman. Her husband, also in his sixties, rests back into his chair content to tiredly utter well worn mumbles of agreement.
The subject of the day is benefits. Her running through of categories of people that 'shouldn't get a penny' quickly disqualifies anyone who's not white, middle-class and over sixty.
“They've all got tattoos of course,” she takes a second to let her whore of an observation parade itself proudly around the pub draping itself all over men with beards and hate, “how can they afford tattoos if they don't have a job?”
“We're paying for 'em,” her husband says .
“We're paying for 'em,” she says before moving onto fingers, “and they've all got nice nails.” The tone in her voice is now so incredulous, I want to record it; make it a lasting exhibit of 'incredulous'; play it back to anyone who asks me what 'incredulous' is. I don't – that would have been an 'odd' apparently. Stupid social conventions stopping me from recording people's conversations in pubs. Go away conventions, leave me alone. I want to be free of you, dig a hole in a field and live in it.
Now she moves on to immigration. “You can't blame people for voting BNP,” she concludes, her husband coughs uncomfortably. Her argument boils down to that though the BNP are 'of course abhorrent', another more mainstream party should adopt all of their policies.
But she hasn't said 'political correctness gone mad yet.' What a disappointing odious bitch she is. At least play the game woman. My bigotry bingo card is incomplete and your lazy racism is not covering all the bases it should.
'Come on, we've got to get back,' her husband says, drinking the last mouthful of beer in a way that is some how self-congratulatory. They've got stuff to do. Probably watch Britain's Got Talent or chase Asians in their people carrier.