Copernican Principle      The scribblings of an insignificant man

  Climbing a few stone steps to the main entrance, he chose to go through the right-hand door into the games room. It was light and clean inside. Before him were a few chairs and tables by a window over looking the street and to the left, top end of the room, sat a pool table next to a small bar. Gordon acknowledged each of the half dozen people scattered around as he made his way over. A new face in the pub was alone worthy of their second looks, but bathed in a warm Mediterranean tan, it also honoured a couple of raised eyebrows and at least one suspicious, furrowed brow.

  “A pint of Tetley’s please,” Gordon asked the lone barman. He smartened his London accent in order to minimise any risk of being misunderstood in this Northern town.

  The barman acknowledged his request with a nod and reached for a glass from below the bar. “Owt else?” The barman’s tone was direct but friendly.

  “Just some change for the pool table please.” Gordon produced a £50 note and held it while his drink was served before him.

  “Have you owt smaller?”

  “I’ve got a younger brother,” Gordon replied but was only returned with a blank stare which drifted down to his hand holding the large pink banknote.

  Gordon looked down at the note too and, following the lead of the barman, gave it a good hard stare. Then, raising it in front of him he folded it neatly in half and offered it as payment.

  “Oh a comedian eh?” The barman’s face remained straight for a moment but eventually broke into a soft smile.

  “Tell you what,” Gordon suggested, “pay me on 10 more pints, take one for yourself and keep the change.”

  “What about change for the pool table?” The barman asked.

  “I’ve got another note,” Gordon answered.

  “Give me another £50 note and you can buy the pool table.”

  With the ice agreeably broken, Gordon finally felt some relief from the last few strenuous days. It was his first few minutes ever spent in Barnsley. Earlier excursions had granted him a few years in London, where he had acquired an accent that swung easily between the extremes of social class, from ‘How awfully nice’ to ‘Blimey geezer, luv that levver jacket’.

  The barman, having poured Gordon his first pint of the afternoon, now joined him pool table side of the bar. As he knelt by the table and set the coin mechanism to free play, he asked “Are ya new here then?” His accent was a little harder than the average Yorkshire strain but still clear and coherent.

  “My first time in Barnsley,” Gordon replied, maintaining a classical newsreader tone, “the name’s Gordon, pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m Landlord.”

  “Nice to meet you Mr Lord, fancy joining me in a game?” The Landlord looked straight at Gordon but maintained his poker face before answering.

  “Aye, I’ll gi’ thee a bat.” The Landlord’s accent was suddenly exaggerated. A battle of wits had begun. Gordon saw the challenge and smiled. Maybe later he’ll fire back but for now he just wanted to settle in and make and I’ll have another pint before we start please,” Gordon spoke cheerily.

  “But you’ve not even started the first one yet?” Before Landlord’s sentence was even finished, the first pint slid smoothly and very, very quickly down Gordon’s very, very appreciative neck. Both men now smiled broadly at each other in common understanding.

 

Meantime, back on the Copernicus

  “So our friend has already left?” The Commander asked.

  “Yes,” the teleport operative replied. “We dropped him in Barnsley as already agreed in a suitable spot just outside of the town centre.”

  “Do we have AV?”

  “Not yet, but we’ve sent a fly-cam down to monitor activity and should have a direct link in about 3 hours.”

  “Good, let’s hope he can at least maintain a discreet profile this time.”

 

3 Hours Later

  “Commander we have AV,” the operative called over. The Commander turned to the front wall of the main deck as the images and sound flickered into life. “That’s him at the bar, Sir.”

  “What’s he doing on his knees?” The Commander’s voice conveyed a forced calmness.

  “It looks like he’s playing peek-a-boo, Sir. Oh … no … hold on, I’m picking up the conversation from the other side of the room now. They’re arguing over something … about Gordon saying something to them earlier … they should be more in touch with their feminine sides … and … I think he’s hiding from them.”

 

And back at the Pig

  Landlord leaned over the bar and down at Gordon. “So you’re half Pakistani and half Jewish?”

  “No,” Gordon replied, with his speech all sloshy after a substantial volume of beer. “That guy over there,” now waving his hand in the direction of the only empty table left in the pub, “said I looked like a Paki and, just be sociable, I agreed with him …. and …. and …  I think I might have mentioned the Jewish bit by accident.”

  “What?” Landlord asked him in amazement.

  “He was talking Barnsley speak and I never stood a word he spoke and called him anti-semantic, so he says ‘soz I dint know tha was a Jew’.”

  “And why are you on your knees?”

  “So when I fall over dwunk, it won’t hurt so much,” and with that …. he fell over.