As I was engaged in changing a barrel of Devil's Hoof in the cellar, I missed the beginning of the debate but entered as it settled down with the general agreement that Alan Bennet would change his underpants on a daily basis.
All present agreed that Alan would be supportive of the Yorkshire wool industry and wear thunderbags of said material. Our company, being familiar with the smell of wet sheep claimed this sealed the daily change agreement. In support Thin Jones added that, although forced to journey south for promotional activities, our wordsmith would not be a prolific eater of salads.
Old Thomas, who up to this point had been sitting silently by the fire sucking a packet of crisps, slammed his tankard down on the Space Invaders table and cried out that Alan Bennet was possibly the world's greatest living Yorkshireman and that none of the present company was fit to kiss the hem of his underpants.
An eerie silence decended on the room, save for the ticking of the clock and the dying crackle of the charred logs in the hearth. Time seemed to stand still, apart from the aforementioned ticking. Grown men, aged before their years, looked down into their flagons and silently nodded agreement, knowing that a great truth had been spoken.
Big Jack, swilled the dregs of his Devil's Hoof around in the bottom of his glass then, swiftly draining said glass, pushed his chair back. It scraped against the flagstones like a stone coffin being opened. He buttoned up his jerkin, re-aligned his flat cap and muttered something beneath his breath.
"What was that?" inquired Old Thomas, "I'll have thee tongue on an oven bottom barmcake if thee said what I think thee said. Spit it out man!"
Big Jack, with a speed that belied his Incapacity Benefit Claim, raced like a whippet to the massive oak door, struggled with the latch, but made it out into the cold, dark afternoon as the words "David Hockney" echoed through the snug like the death cries of a banshee. That's when it all kicked off...
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