The Governor
He rarely spoke, he didn’t need to, some called him lazy, others called him sensible, he’d sit at the end of the bar on a stool that could barely hold his weight, that’s what made him cool, he didn’t care about the minor details, Fridays he’d dress in black, shoes were shined, shirts and trousers pressed, the life of a publican ain’t glamorous it’s not supposed to be that’s why no one wants to do it, his only exercise was walking from the bar to the beer garden to smoke a cigarette they were always hand rolled with such careful consideration, if compacted too tight the flame wouldn’t impregnate the Rizla correctly, thus, making each drag impotent, if too loose, you’d find yourself sucking on a dandelion stem, the perfect hand rolled cigarette comes through years of practice, akin to mastering both snooker and darts, pinpoint accuracy is required and this can only be perfected by spending way too much time down the pub...
