The pub had familiar liturgies: football, beer, women, and Aristotle, although not necessarily in that order. Set upon a hill in the backstreets of Uplands, it also had a fine literary history, a meeting place for luminaries such as Kingsley Amis, who could often be found, in days gone by, luring students to certain reputational doom in the snug. And, it is said, Mary Shelley, when visiting her mother in Laugharne, would stop over for a bevvy.
Bert Thomas, sat in Kingsley’s favoured place. He wasn’t a literary figure, nor an academic, but Bert liked to read.
“All right, Bert,” Ted Watts said, as he shuffled sideways to look at the book Bert was holding firmly in his heavy hands. “What’re you reading?”
“This, Ted,” said Bert, “is an outline of Aristotle’s thoughts on time.”
“That right? Any good?”
“A bit slow, poor character development, and not much in the way of conflict,” Bert replied. “But it has a convincing theme. You see, Aristotle divided time into three parts: the future, the present, and the past.”
“That makes sense. What’s he say?”
“He posits that the future doesn’t really exist yet, and the past has ceased to exist. So, he wonders how thick the present is?”
“Looking at young Brian over there, very thick if you ask me, Bert.”
“Not that sort of thick, Ted. He wonders if the present is an hour, or a minute, or just a second. In the end, he decides it’s just a moment between the past and the future.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“It means the present is a dividing line between two things that don’t exist.”
“A bit like the Swans midfield then, Bert. A dividing line between an attack and a defence that don’t exist.”
“Yeah, something like that. It’s all a bit woke if you ask me.”
“What, like those lesbians?”
“Yeah, and the Israelis and the Pantechnicons. Woke.”
“It’s gone mad, this woke stuff. I read in the Evening Post you can’t give your kid a clip round the ear these days.”
“That’s right. Il est baffe moins une, as the Belgians say. Ruined everything.”
“Yeah, that woke stuff can do one. Next thing you know, they’ll be forcing us to have gender changes.”
“Like Tommy Nonuts?”
“Nah, that was an accident. But he leaned into it with his frilly dresses.”
“Leaned into it? That sounds a bit woke.”
“Just modern argot, Ted. Woke is when you have someone who is disadvantaged, and you ruin everything to let them feel included. Like letting women into the bar at the Labour Club.”
“Oh, I see,” Ted thought for a moment, “and like making me park on the road, so some bloke from Townhill can get by in his electric chair?”
“They’re not called that, it’s a motorised scooter. But that’s the strength of it.”
“Case in point. It ruined my bloody door mirror when a council lorry clipped it.”
“Terrible. That’s woke for you. Ruins everything.”
