Dave and Vinny: Woke?

The Rampant Horse sat on the corner of Longcroft estate like a battered war veteran — paint peeling, windows fogged, and a faint whiff of stale lager clinging to the brickwork. Inside, it was as dimly lit as ever, with Ken the barman glowering from behind the pumps, as if every pint pulled shortened his life by another day.

Dave leaned against the bar, nursing a pint of bitter. His mate Vinny shuffled in, Scraps the terrier at his heels. The dog sniffed around the stools, ignoring Ken’s scowl.

“Vinny,” Dave said, “I thought Ken told you last week — no dogs.”

Vinny puffed out his chest, put on his best serious face and began to speak.

“Ever since I inherited Scraps from Old Pete, God rest his soul, Ken has been trying to get me to leave poor Scraps at home. He told Old Pete for ten years no dogs. Pete ignored him. I’m carrying on the same policy. He might as well try to catch the wind. He could try to plait fog. He could try to please a woman. He can stand on a mountain top holding aloft a length of copper pipe and yell all Gods are bastards. He might as well tell Elon Musk to shut the fuck up on Twitter. He might as well try getting sick note Keith back into work but never and I mean never in life will he stop me bringing Scraps here with me.”

From the corner, Sick Note Keith coughed theatrically, then raised his pint. “I resent that. I’m delicate.”

“Delicate?” Sandra the barmaid snorted, setting down a tray of empty glasses. “You’re as delicate…