Permanently Legless

Permanently Legless By J.L. Merrow “You coming down the pub tonight?” Nathan asks as he puts down his pint, hitting the beer mat dead centre without even looking. His eyes are glued to the Saturday lunchtime footie on the telly in the corner, though why anyone would want to watch Stoke City hang on grimly to a one-nil lead for eighty-seven mind-numbing minutes is beyond me. He’s a good mate, though, Nathan. Solid. Character-wise, I mean, although the poor sod does act like he’s got a fair bit of bone between the ears, too, sometimes. Straight, but it’s not like he can help it so I try not to hold it against him. So to speak. “We’re at the pub now, Nate,” I remind him. “So?” he asks, like that’s got nothing at all to do with the price of fish. “So,” I tell him patiently, “maybe I want a night off, once in a while. Don’t want people thinking I’m permanently legless, do I?” “Nah, s’pose not,” he mutters, still watching the most boring game of football ever played, let alone televised. Then it hits him and he spills his pint, laughing. “You wanker!” “Takes one to know one, Nate,” I tell him. “Listen, I’ll see you around, all right?” I wheel my chair out around the table and through the pub, shouting, “Coming through!” to wake up a few other buggers who’ve only got eyes for the telly and get them out of my way. I give Cheryl at the bar a wave, and she blows me a kiss with her man-eater red lips, Lycra sleeves straining round her biceps as she pulls another pint. I’d have stayed a bit longer, but I need a piss, and there’s no way I’m getting this chair through two sets of doors to get to the Gents. And anyway, that football match really was bad. Premiership, my shrapnel-scarred arse.