SPIVS LURK AMONG US

THERE’S a wonderful English word, “spiv,” that has fallen out of use in modern times, but was popular back in the years after World War II.

I was watching a news bulletin on TV over the weekend and when the story of a certain smoothtalking politician crossed my screen the word popped into my mind uninvited. I hadn’t seen a real spiv since the 1950s. I just took one look at the slick politician and I heard myself saying, “Now there’s a real spiv.” If you’re too young to know about spivs, look it up on your wikimathingy.

It describes a spiv as “a flashily dressed man who makes his living by dishonest dealings rather than by holding a regular job”. Sounds like a politician to me. Spivs were well known after the war when rationing was in force.

They knew a man who could get you stuff on the black market, no questions asked, meet me at the corner and we can do a deal. In those days a typical spiv wore a jacket with broad shoulders and a wide collar, possibly velvet, narrow trousers and a broad, flashy tie and a thin pencil moustache. His hat was usually tilted to one side, gangsterstyle, shading his shifty little eyes. You’ll recognise him if you see his photograph.

The modern spiv wears long pointed shoes, narrow trousers that stop at the ankles, slim tapered jackets and a very shiny gold watch. The pencil moustache is optional but the South African spiv usually has a brightly polished head. (What do the politicians use to achieve that shine? Cobra wax?)

During the war years British factories and farms turned all their energy to wartime production. Clothing manufacturers made military uniforms. Instead of cars the motor industry produced tanks and army lorries. Farms packaged their produce to send to soldiers at the battlefront.

There was not much available for the people left behind. The old folks, the wives and children were issued ration books that allowed them to buy one egg a week and a tin of powdered milk for the baby. But there was always the spiv who sidled up and said he knew a guy who had a cousin who could get you real butter and a pound of coffee that wasn’t made from acorns. (“Five quid, mate, no questions asked.”)

The modern spiv sidles up and whispers that he can get you a job as head of a department. (“A million a year, 30% for me and no qualification needed.”) Some things never change. No matter what we call them, spivs will always be lurking among us. Last Laugh

A man walked into the bar and ordered two whiskies, gulped one down and poured the other into his jacket pocket.

Then he ordered two more and did the same.

“Hey,” said the barman, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s for my pet mouse,” said the customer. “He enjoys whisky as much as I do.”

“That’s crazy,” said the barman. “I’m asking you to leave immediately.”

“You can’t do that to me,” shouted the customer. “I demand to see the manager.”

And a little voice from the man’s pocket shouted: “Yeah! And tell him to bring his stupid cat too.”