Wallace The Barbarian

1

Back at the arse end of April 1982 Spanish beanie hat wearer and general pain in the arse Enrique Inglesias was but a mere twinkle in his equally lecherous fathers eye as he graced the British charts with yet another of his lamentable croonings. Talking of generals who are a pain in the arse. General Leopoldo Galtieri and his minions of like-minded dago bastards took it upon themselves and what’s more thought it was a good idea to invade the Falkland Islands.2

Now far is it from me to suggest that the Argentines were holding the misconstrued belief that these islands a stone throw from their coast may belong to them and not to a country nearly eight thousand miles away. However true to form, when the might of Her Majesties Armed forces popped down to the South Atlantic for a “Chat!” The Argentineans decided, as these foreign types usually do, that they didn’t like it up them and promptly got their arses kicked.3

Looking back now it must have been a logistical nightmare. I read years later that the Americans had advised Mrs. Thatcher, who was British Prime Minister at the time, that the Falklands War would be impossible to win. This opinion however was never going to be heeded, as what right thinking country would take military advise from a country who’s war winning record is, it has to be said, piss poor.4

Korea, Vietnam, the invasion of Panama, need I go on?5

Mrs. Thatcher had other ideas and sent ahead of the main task force a crack squad of double hard bastards aka the S.A.S. and operation Mikado was born. The nuts and bolts of “Operation Mikado” are still a bit hush, hush, however it is all boys own stuff, but for real.6

Basically the S.A.S. and their like-minded colleagues from the S.B.S. went ashore under cover of night. Their mission was to blow up or render useless Argentine missiles and fighter jets. Also they were to storm the pilots sleeping quarters and dispatch as many of them as they saw fit.7

Substitute the German foes of World War Two for Argentines and you get the overall broad strokes of the project.8

Anyway back on topic as I have once again gone off on a tangent.9

That roasting hot, humid afternoon at the sweaty end of June 1982 I sat flicking through a selection of newspapers, which graced the table in the corner of Wallace The Barbarians barbershop. Waiting my turn in his chair of doom to receive the scalping of my life before being fleeced for the princely sum of £1.50. The newspapers were full of high praise for our victorious returning hero’s, however as you might have expected very little in the way of sympathy for the Argentine despots and their cohorts.10

Gaucho’s they most definitely were not, fuckwits well that’s another question entirely.11

“See that Buenos Aires?” Enquired Wallace The Barbarian as he bore down, scissors at the ready, upon his latest terrified victim. “My grandfather went there once during the 1930’s. He said is was as hot as hell, dirty and that the locals are devious thieving bastards!” 12

I looked round the barbershop and noted the gathered throng of hillbilly’s, half wits, inbreeds and ner-do-wells nodding in mutual agreement. “I’ll tell you another thing! We went to the south of France last year on holiday and they were all dirty bastards as well!” Continued Wallace regaling us with his considered opinion of world travel and the perils therein. I sat there listening intently to the non-stop xenophobic ranting prior to receiving my fashion leading number one pudding bowl haircut and then beat a hasty retreat to my bedroom.13

That was the last time for many, many years that I had my hair, what can loosely be described as cut, by Wallace The Barbarian. As the lure of a proper hairdressers salon staffed by people who wore skirts, high heeled shoes and had bumpy jumpers proved all to tempting.14

However there are only a limited number of times that the male of the species can cope with the inane drivel that passes for conversation in these places. As chat about where you are going or have been on your holidays, the weather and if you are off out to the pub at the weekend tends to wear very thin after a few years. Yes you slowly arrive at the realisation that ninety percent of women are clearly mad most of the time and the remaining ten percent are totally potty all of the time.15

So some twenty years later in need of a haircut and not wanting to go through the purgatory of answering the same list of dull holiday, weather based drinking questions I found myself standing on the pavement outside Wallace The Barbarian’s barbershop.16

Surely though old Wallace must have retired, snuffed it or both by now. 17

He could not still be trading could he? 18

I had, had an inkling earlier in the week that he may be, or at the very least son of Wallace The Barbarian may have taken over the reins. This thought had occurred to me as I was passed in the street by several young lads sporting said number one pudding bowel style haircuts.19

Now either Moe from The Three Stooges had become a fashion icon or Wallace was still practising his dark arts.20

I pushed the door open and stepped in. The lino on the floor was certainly the same dog shit brown colour, the burgundy coloured leatherette barbers chair looked exactly the same as I remembered it and there wielding his razor sharp scissors, at a rate that the sands of time had not slowed, a now grey haired Wallace The Barbarian.21

“Morning! Take a seat! I’ll be with you after this lot!” He said waving the aforementioned scissors in the general direction of a collection of village idiots who were all sat around reading newspapers, well I say reading, more like looking at the pictures.22

I took a seat and my arse had barley warmed the orange plastic chair when it started.23

“See that Scott Smith? You know “The Captain” the one armed taxi driver?” Wallace said half laughing.24

The gathered throng nodded silently.25

“He was in here yesterday telling me how he was only taking on Polish drivers because he can pay them less!” He continued. “I told him that he could pay them less because they all make money in other ways!” “When he asked what I was on about. I told him that my father had fought alongside some Polish soldiers during the war. That they were good soldiers but would steel anything that wasn’t nailed down!”26

“Thieving Polish bastards!” He concluded.27

The audience as ever nodded in agreement.28

Wallace The Barbarian’s shop may not have on demand hot and cold running harlots, but the conversation, although decidedly right of centre, is definitely more entertaining.29

So long of course, as you do not happen to be foreign.30