The plan was simple. Bike down to The Chocolate Shop (Turkish place, formerly Shan’s Stores), purchase a gentleman’s deal on the Stellas, and then swing back up to the Co-Op for the tinned toms and mixed beans to be home in time for the first World Cup game. It was only once I was hoovering the cans off the shelf and into my basket that I realized a potential flaw in my schematics – I potentially didn’t have quite enough cash on me, and I was aware that mercantile capitalism can be unforgiving in this regard. However, a somewhat selfconscious scrabbling in my bag produced a few rogue coins that would take me up to the fiver. Phew. Unfortunately, one of those coins was a pound that I had recently thought myself lucky to spot half buried in the dirt at Coleridge Recreation Ground. Exposure to varying climactic conditions and mineral contamination had turned it kinda brown.
“No no no. What’s this? It’s dodgy” decided the man behind the counter.
“No, it’s alright. It’s a real pound. It’s just a bit dirty” I tried to explain, but he wasn’t having any of it.
“It’s OK,” I insisted. “Any bank will take that. I actually found this coin on the ground. It’s just a bit dirty.”
Still no joy. I breathed out, and did some more scrabbling in my man-purse. Contrary to my expectations, it did seem as if I was still able to scrape together the five pounds without relying on my “dodgy” pound.
At this point, however, the geezer obviously felt he was on a bit of a roll when it came to turning down business, because he then decided to refuse to accept one of my 5p pieces on the grounds that it, too, was tarnished in some way. It was a little grubby, but not in the weatherbeaten sense that the pound coin had been, and to my way of thinking, it was only five fucking pee out of five fucking pounds so what was the problem? I was of course quiveringly livid by this point, and a small queue had formed behind me to bear witness to my humiliation.
“OK”, I said, “just to be absolutely sure, please tell me if there are any further coins you have objections to accepting.” I was trying to draw attention the ridiculous pettiness of his position, but it didn’t seem to work. He indicated that I should take my money and leave. I gave him a sort of “fuck you and all your antecedents” look and left, swearing that that 5p would cost him at least £200 pound worth of lost business in gentlemen’s deals by the time my liver packs in. What a fucking sucker of cocks.
Funnily enough, when I looked in my wallet in Mace, which is fifty yards down the road and also offers the gentleman’s on Stella, I discovered I had an extra two pound coin amongst my change. Matey had somehow included it when he contemptuously handed my money back. This didn’t mollify me in any way, but it’s a nice screwy little detail in the whole poxy episode.
Scan of the actual coins included.
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