Dave and Vinny: The Flamingo Incident
It was a Saturday afternoon at The Rampant Horse, and for once, the estate was quiet. No sirens. No mopeds screaming past the bookies. Even Lee was temporarily behaving himself, which was unnerving.
Dave arrived with the urgency of a man who’d just spent four hours at IKEA.
“Carol says if I ever question her hexagonal shelving choices again, she’ll arrange my funeral in one.”
Vinny was already perched on his stool, Scraps sprawled underfoot like a rug that had seen battle.
“You’re lucky,” Vinny said. “All I’ve done today is step in something organic and unidentifiable.”
Sandra walked past with a full tray. “You two sound like a sad country song.”
“IKEA Blues,” said Dave. “With a B-side called Flat Pack Regret.”
Ken scowled as he cleaned a pint glass that probably hadn’t seen a dishwasher since Thatcher. “You pair going to order or just clog up the air with despair?”
“Two pints,” said Dave. “And a packet of crisps for the emotional trauma.”
As Ken poured, Sandra returned with a grin. “So, what’s the topic today? Brexit? Bin collections? Bodily functions?”
“Flamingos,” said Vinny, entirely straight-faced.
“Of course it is,” said Ken. “Because why wouldn’t it be?”
“No, hear me out,” said Dave, warming up. “Flamingos. Right? Ridiculous creatures. Bright pink, one leg, live in salty ponds. It’s like evolution sneezed.”
“They’re elegant, and they have two legs.” said Sandra.
“They’re smug,” said Vinny. “And suspicious.”
“How is a flamingo suspicious?” asked Dave.
“No bird that pink should be that balanced. It’s showing off.”
Lecherous Lee slunk in from the toilets, hands damp and suspiciously clean. “Speaking of pink—”
“Don’t,” said Sandra, not even turning around. “You’ve been warned.”
Lee took his beer and sat down, muttering something about "wokeness ruining ornithology".
Dave took a sip and leaned forward. “So get this. Carol reckons flamingos get pink from what they eat.”
“They do,” said Vinny. “Shrimps and stuff.”
“That’s madness! Imagine if that applied to us. I’d be the colour of curry sauce.”
Sandra grinned. “You’d be beige with patches of Greggs.”
“Vinny’d be dark brown,” Dave continued. “From all the burnt toast and over-brewed tea.”
Vinny nodded. “You are what you eat. Scraps would be bin juice.”
Scraps, perhaps in agreement, released a sound that could not be legally classified as a fart.
Everyone turned to look.
Ken froze mid-pour. “Get that animal out or buy a bloody cork.”
“He’s part of the family,” Vinny said, patting the dog’s bald patch affectionately.
“That dog’s a lawsuit on legs.” moaned Ken.
A newcomer at the bar — a quiet lad with a stack of scratch cards — piped up. “Actually, flamingos filter food through their beaks like baleen whales.”
Everyone stared.
“What?” he said. “I watch a lot of the discovery channel.”
Ken handed him a pint on the house. “Finally, someone educated. Get these two muppets up to speed.”
Dave leaned back. “First penguins, now flamingos. At this rate, David Attenborough will be coming to us for info.”
Vinny nodded solemnly. “As long as it’s not giraffes next. I’ve got a neck phobia.”
Sandra looked at him. “A what?”
“Long necks. Make me nervous. It was down to an old girlfriend, long story.”
“You want help,” she said. “Possibly medication.”
Ken rang the bell. “Right, last orders before the mammals start arguing about otters.”