22. Being Thrifty

There's a vast difference between being thrifty and being mean yet the dividing line is as fine as the one between genius and imbecility. Sometimes it's hard to say what type a person is. In the eyes of some he's a financial wizard who knows how to look after his money, whereas to others he is as tight as a fishes arse, which is well renowned for being water tight.

Same as a bloke who is well endowed when it comes to I.Q. If he's a mite eccentric in his outlook he's considered unconventional to some, but to others he's due for a basket-weaving course. It's hard to be sure, depends how things turn out.

One of the lads who was a member of the Pembroke Boxing and Athletic club, as I was during the thirties, came under the genius or nutter category. We all thought he was barmy. Full stop.

After all, why belong to a boxing club and never get a pair of gloves on and have a bash in the ring ? Why go out on a training run to get fit then half-way round catch a bus back to the club ? Must have been George Raft. Incidents as the night when he turned all the tables and chairs upside-down because he was fed up with seeing the same old set-up and drank his cuppa while balancing on his head to prove that the law of gravity was a fake as the tea went upwards to his stomach, all confirmed our opinion that he was as bent as a four pound note.

But as I said, it all depends how things turn out. In his case we were wrong as after the war he became one of boxing's best known managers of pro. fighters. All the loot he earned from it stemmed from his association with idiots like us who only got cups and medals for our bent hooters and corrugated ears. No names mentioned but I'll tell anyone who cares to ask.

Scrooge was a novice compared with a chap I worked with just after the war. He was a Czech who managed to escape to England before the Nazi invasion and after demob chose to live here with his wife, an English girl he married during the war. His first name was Karl.

Don't get me wrong when I say that Ebenezer S. would have benefited fron a few lessons from him. Whereas E.S. was rich and his frugality was self imposed, Karl had nowt but a few sticks of furniture, a pair of overalls, his demob suit and a bit in the bank. Well more or less.

And an ambition to own a restaurant. Whereby sprang his Spartan way of life in an effort to save money.

I must say that saving anything out of the wages our guv'nor paid was bloody nigh an impossibility.

If Eamonn Andrews* had been doing "This is Your Life" in 1946 and picked on our boss, he'd have read him the Xmas Carol with the exception of Scrooge's change of heart which our guv never got round to having. He retired to a tax haven abroad before they'd been invented.

Anyway Karl made the effort with a determination that was amazing in it's adherance to living on a minimum of outlay.

He'd bring to work one fag, one match and the side of a matchbox. This he'd smoke after dinner which consisted of a cheese butty and a long thin bottle of a pale brown liquid which we assumed to be home-made wine. It was his method of drinking it which led us to this conclusion as he'd take a mouthful, swill it round his teeth, gargle in his throat, then swallow. Only when he left it on the bench one day to go and have a Jimmy and one of the lads took a quick swig, did we find out what it was.

Cold tea, without sugar or milk.

I never saw him eat or drink anything else the whole time he worked there. He never bought a raffle ticket, had a beer with the lads, backed a horse, played a game of brag on paydays or paid for a haircut. His missus cut it. So we, having only the ambition to exist as best we could classed him as a mean sod who wouldn't give you a cold if he had the flu.

And tried innumerable ways to make him part with some cash but all to no avail until one day we found his Achilles heel.  A nosh up of chicken.

He let on that he loved chicken cooked any way. Roast, boiled, fried, grilled, devilled, supreme, curried, diable, with fruit sauce, pimento, apricot stuffed, in casserole, you name it and he positively drooled. But finances being as they were he couldn't afford it.

It so happened that I, at that period of time, kept chickens in my garden, and here was an ideal chance to score over big spender. I told him that I had a bird which was a poor layer and I'd sell it to him for four bob. Dirt cheap.

This was the truth slightly bent to suit the occasion as it was indeed a poor layer having died two days before from internal egg laying and I had buried it in the garden. Which made it dirt cheap. Well for four bob it was.

Karl jumped at the offer and I dug it up that night, cleaned it up and gave it to him next day. Luckily we'd been having a dry spell so it wasn't too bad. Just a mite dusty.

The lads killed themselves laughing when they heard how Karl's taste buds had overcome his avarice and even more so when those same taste buds made him refuse to pay me four bob as he said it had a peculiar taste and it was only worth two shillings. I was a bit relieved that he hadn't got food poisoning so settled for that.

I never saw or heard of him after he left but I'll bet he got his restaurant and I only hope that I never stray in there for a meal. Knowing what blokes are I'd bet my shirt that somebody told him what I did and God alone knows what I'd get served up if I ordered chicken supreme.


Notes:
This entry was written/published in late 1978.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eamonn_Andrews
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/This_Is_Your_Life_(UK_TV_series)