(84) 'Killjoys Not Welcome'

[Ken]

I once heard speak of a man who asked this question of himself, "Why is the laughter always in the next room?"  The poor fellow found that whenever he entered such a room the laughter would quickly cease. This he failed to understand and years later he still hadn't reached the conclusion that it was his own miserable persona that constantly killed the merriment.  We have all met people like him, the killjoys of this world, and I have ensured I avoid them like the plague.  However, I did meet one such, Mr. Killjoy, on the New Years Day of 1987, for somehow he escaped my unique, berk alert, anti killjoy, radar system.

Jenny had said she was tired that evening and she suggested that I visit the nearest pub for a few pints and some male company.  Twenty seven seconds later I was sitting at the bar enjoying my first pint.  I was chatting with the regulars, most of whom I knew well, when I noticed one chap, unknown to me, sitting on his own.  Feeling sad for his look of loneliness, and because it was the start of a new year, I engaged him in conversation.  That was a mistake, for I was soon to find I had failed to recognise a killjoy of the highest order.  By this time he had come over and sat at the bar with us and I noticed the banter among my erstwhile companions stop.  These locals, who obviously knew of him, quickly drifted away, taking their beer and their laughter with them.  I was left with this Mr. Killjoy who proceeded to bore the arse of me. I was to discover later he had been out with the local Fox hunt and had been drinking all day.  

His tedious conversation soon made me realise he was very anti English and when he challenged me to name a local pub with a Welsh name he was getting positively angry.  "The Black Lion, The Royal Oak, The Lock and Key, all f*cking English names," he rambled belligerently.  At this point I called the landlord over and explained that the man was looking for trouble and he would not get it with me.  I said I would spend my money on another evening and with a, "Goodnight All," spoken in the mode of Bob Tuffs, I left the pub. Inside, I was seething with anger and I can honestly say that as I walked home I was so annoyed with the Killjoy that I almost turned around and went back to the pub.  I was in my prime back then with immensely strong arms and I pondered on how much I would enjoy teaching this loathsome bully boy a lesson

Of course I didn't I turn back, I went home annoyed and poured myself some home brew.  Much later I went to bed a little less annoyed, but it was of the killjoys of this world I was thinking as I drifted into the land of nod.  Shoot the lot of them was my last uncharitable thought.  A few days later I once again went to the pub and the landlord came over and apologised for his argumentative customer.  I asked who the arsehole was and I found out that he was a known and unpopular trouble maker.  The landlord then said he went through the same routine with the next English customer who arrived not long after I left. Apparently the English Pub names argument was repeated in the same hostile manner.  I saw a twinkle in the landlords eye so I asked who the Englishman was.  "Terry from Parc Y Ross," was the reply and the landlord grinned.  I knew Terry to have a more volatile nature than I but before I could ask what happened he continued, "Terry head butted him," and then we were both grinning.  I'm told that Terry had many drinks bought for him in the weeks that followed, while Mr Arsehole Killjoy was banned from yet another pub!

All my friends are happy souls and some of them have had cause not to be so.  But we are of a type that believes laughter is a fine medicine and very little keeps us down.  I think this next recollection shows how I am programmed to never be a killjoy of this world.  Many decades ago a much slimmer version of me was sitting at the bar of The Bricklayers Arms pub during what are now called the swinging sixties.  With me was, an equally slim, John McEntee, aka Maxi, we were talking with the landlady whose name was Sylvie Trussler.  Sylvie remarked that she always liked it when we came in because the two of us were always so happy.  Johns reply surprised me for he said in his own inimitable way, "Kens always happy, but I'm not, if I'm not happy I don't come out," he gestured at me with the Maxi grin, "But this geezers always bloody happy!"  I'm not sure if he could recall that conversation but it stuck in my mind for it was a compliment from my old friend and, I now realise, the truth.  I thank God I'm a happy soul and never a killjoy.
 
By nature I am always cheerful and I'm told it constantly, some of whom may think I'm rather odd with my constant humming or tuneless whistling.  I recall waiting for a bus one cold wet winters morning, the strong winds had already destroyed my umbrella and the heavy rain was finding ways through my waxed Barbour coat.  Needless to say, the bus was very late that day, but it finally arrived and as I handed my pensioner pass to the fed up driver, I glanced at the assorted passengers.  They all sat motionless and dejectedly soaked to the skin, and I suddenly found myself singing out for all to hear, "There's a bright golden haze on the meadow," which is the first line of the song, 'Oh, What a Beautiful Morning,' from the musical show, Oklahoma.  Now I'm no Howard Keel, but the bus driver laughed and several of the passengers smiled and answered my cheerfully loud, "Good Morning."  The shared feeling of gloom that had filled the bus evaporated and, on that dismal morning, my happiness was contagious in a good way!

Happiness is always with me, like it was when I cheered up that unhappy bus.  The staff at the Doctors have commented on it, as has my Dentist.  The Pharmacist calls me Mr. Cheerful, as she hands me my huge bag of prescribed medicines.  The dozens of guests who have stayed in our Welsh home, remark how consistently upbeat my mood is.  In truth, some have added they wish it were not so, for its a cheerful me who awakes them annoyingly early for breakfast each morning.  I'm grateful for the gift that I awake in a good mood and, when I walk into a room, the laughter doesn't stop.  In the heart of what I pompously call my Kingdom, I have an assortment of old fashioned metal wall signs.  Most feature ancient adverts but some carry messages.  One favourite states that, 'Happiness is not a destination but a way of life,' and another says, 'Be Nice Or Leave.'  If you ever come across any outdoor metal sign that says, 'All Killjoys Will Be Shot On Site!'  Please send it to me!

 

[Ken]

Killjoy's are often attracted to the laughter in the next room and like a moth to a candle flame are drawn to the sound of merriment.  This tale tells how on the first day of 1987 one such Killjoy got somewhat burned because of his boorish behaviour.