Roger got out of the taxi, skewing his undernourished features to express his reluctance to bear the brunt of the blame for the driver’s lack of direction or punctuality. As soon as Roger had parted with his hard earned cash, Butlins bundled him off with one arm clasped forcibly around his waist to a quiet corner of the car park. Roger made no effort to resist, though it crossed his mind to point out that the faceless brick built edifice housing the registry office, bore absolutely no resemblance to the hallowed ground of the local church and all the ancient marriage customs that went with it. Wiser, perhaps, he thought, to leave Butlins to his misconceptions. He was after all, large even for a brickie and so named because of his tendency to be outrageously camp. Herbert really didn’t suit him and he was only known as Bert by his workmates, who, by all accounts, knew nothing of the true personality simmering beneath his workman’s cleavage. Roger had no particular bias against Butlins’ sexuality, there was far too much of it to ignore; about twenty-two stone he reckoned, backed up by a GBH charge acquired in defence of it. He was quite happy to accept him at face value, which wasn’t at all unpleasant and only mildly scarred. Happy to accept anything if it made Irene happy.
Muck and Brass
