After two covid suspensions the Brekka Club met for it’s annual Christmas party. We met up on a park bench at the top of Seaham Blast, a windswept beach covered in a layer of scrap iron-ore two metres thick, that faces out into the North Sea. We swapped gifts of wine, chocolate, books and bespoke synthesisers, we drank coffee and ate a breakfast cooked and brought along by Wilson, along with the usual disgraceful and foul-mouthed banter which could never be shared amongst police society.
No doubt we broke a law or two.
We’re a mixed bunch at the Brekka Club – united only by geography and the fact that we were all failures at school. Frank’s in IT , Wilson is something big in radiation therapy, The Captain is a former army helicopter pilot, now doing search and rescue, and I’m an ex-barman/teacher/busker/whatever who writes a bit. We’re all the sort of working-class types that the elite loathe, in that we’re smart, opinionated, we refuse victimhood, and we don’t give much of a fuck about woke niceties.
Think I’ll post a Christmas wish-list in a bit, and maybe some predictions too, then check back next year to see what I got correct and what I didn’t.
My predictions are not known for their accuracy. Last New Year’s Eve I messaged everyone, telling them that 2020 was going to be an auspicious year. This year I won’t do that.