Quincy

You like a bit of Quincy?

Growled the Bear-Man gutturally from his lair behind the till.

I put the beer that I was examining back down on the shelf and turned to face him with my face going all rumply-pumply with puzzlement.

Quincy? Ooft, that takes me back.

I thought back to those olden days. Staying home sick from school and watching random twoddle on the television. Quincy had always been on, it seemed.

I couldn't remember much about it apart from the actor's very big nose.

And he solved crimes. That was it, big nose and solved crimes. Like a detective nose-monkey.

Aye, I suppose I did like it.

I said, making a Silvio face.

Whatcha mean. You did? You mean you don't now?

The Bear-Man grumbled unhappily as if he were a Komodo dragon plotting to visit someone's dreams and eat them.

Well... You know, you move on. It was a long time ago.

I said defensively.

For fuck sake. Much as I liked the Bear-Man and his astonishingly well stocked beer shop, I didn't expect an interrogation over eighties TV shows when I was buying beer. I only had an hour.

I mean, what next? An argument over Kojak!?! was that even the eighties?

The Bear-Man folded his arms and looked at me speculatively.

Yer a better man than me then. I only fookin heard of it a few years ago. I mean, fook sake... Quincy?

He shook his big, bearded, Northern head at the folly of such a name.

Obviously down south they had no truck with silly names. They were probably all called Bernard or Jack down there. Even the women.

You never saw it when you were little? Like, a kid?

I asked in surprise. I thought we were of an age. Maybe not, maybe the Bear-Man was considerably younger than me?

Fuck, that was worrying.

When ah were little!? Aye right. We wurrint posh you know!

He looked affronted as if I had suggested he drank from a dark cup.

I wasn't exactly posh myself.

I snorted.