I don’t go for Valentine’s Day. I send the Her Indoors a card but it’s only because I bought job lot in 1989.
Still, Valentine’s Day always reminds me of old Vinny. He’s in his 90s now and he spent all his working life in the mills … when we had mills.
He’s a down to earth chap who calls a spade a bleeding shovel and be done with it, but he doesn’t always understand what’s going on around him. Witness the time he was elected to the parish council and at his first meeting they were voting on whether to build a new urinal in the market place. Vinny being Vinny, he didn’t know what a urinal was, so one of the committee members explained it to him.
“Ah, right. A urinal. Good idea,” Vinny said. “And while we’re at it, let’s have one of them there arsenals.”
Anyway, it was on Valentine’s Day a couple of years back that Vinny, who’d already seen off two wives, decided to get married again and he went to the doctor for some advice.
“So how old is the lucky woman, Vinny?” the doc asked.
“Twenty three,” Vinny replied.
The doc turned white on the spot. “Twenty three. Good god, Vinny, you’re nearly 90. She’s at the height of her sex thing and you’re … you’re … nearly 90.”
“Aye, well, doc,” says Vinny, “age is no barrier to love.”
“I know it isn’t,” the doctor told him, “but it’s not love I’m thinking of, it’s sex. Listen, Vinny, it’s not up to me to preach, but I’m thinking of your heart here. Take a bit of advice and get a young lodger in to take care of the sex. Trust me, you’ll live longer for it.”
So Vinny went away and married his young bint. Six months later, I met him in the Jolly Carter. “So how are you Vinny?” I asked.
“Well to be honest, Flatcap,” he said, “I’m in a spot of bother. The wife’s pregnant.”
I shook my head and ate another pork pie. “Oh dear. I can see how that complicates things Vinny. Mind, it’s good to see you took your doctor’s advice and got a lodger in.”
“Aye,” said Vinny, “but that’s the bloody problem. She’s pregnant an’ all.”