Dray disaster

The beer delivery is normally a happy time for publicans, even if it does require an early start. Seeing the empty barrels disappear and the stocks piled high is a joyous opening to the working week. Not so when two cretinous cack-monkeys have been sent to do the business.

I should have twigged when they couldn't open the hatch. One was a bona fide coffin dodger, the other barely out of school. The old boy followed me downstairs, chatting away manically, as the nipper stood nervously on the pavement. The first real sign of trouble came when grandad stood further away from the crash mat than I did, like a batsman scared of the ball. When an 11 gallon keg of lager smashed into a case of bottles, I grimaced and assessed the damage: I can live with losing two 33cl beers, though it's hardly ideal. Sadly, the worst was yet to come.

A firkin of Timmy Taylor came bouncing down, taking flight when my useless new friend failed to trap it with his foot. It careered off to one side, smashing into one of its brethren that I'd lovingly conditioned over the weekend. The tap was smashed clean off the stillaged cask, then ripped from the line. Beer spilled everywhere. Our pair of numb-nutted dimwits stood dumbly by as I rushed to mitigate the disaster, turning the shaken, gushing cask on its end. The young lad peered down - "well mate, your bitters are a bit close to the hatch aren't they?" It took some resolve not to drag him down by his chavvy gelled hair, snap off his head and shove it up Uncle Albert's arse.

So, thanks to a duo of dodgy draymen, I've had to call cellar maintenance out to fix a beer line, and I won't have any Timmy Taylor ready to serve until Wednesday. To add insult to injury, when I was out and about later, I spotted the same pair delivering to another boozer. They waved and smiled. I didn't.