Titanic ‘triumph’ sunk by an icy realisation

Rose was in the kitchen, waiting for hubby Sid to return,

Sid had gone to a boot sale — always a cause for concern. Because Sid was always sure he’d find a bric-a-brac gem. His recent ‘big find’ was William Shakespeare’s quill pen.

Rose was dubious that the Bard had penned words of such awe

With a pigeon feather glued on to a plastic drinking straw, But Sid was adamant that the pen wasn’t counterfeit or fake,

Until he saw the same straw in a McDonald’s milkshake.

So he threw it in the shed with Mandela’s prison shackle, Tutankhamun’s false teeth and Isaac Newton’s apple. Of all past purchase disasters in Sid’s hunt for a ‘gem’, Mandela’s prison shackle was a real nought out of ten. Rose said: ‘Sid, as bad buys go, this is one of your stunners. Mandela’s handcuffs weren’t mink, or made by

Ann Summers.’ Another of Sid’s ‘gems’ was Julius Caesar’s laurel wreath. At just 200 quid, he felt like an artefact thief

Until Rose said: ‘Sid, we’re now 200 quid poorer,

But Caesar’s laurel wreath wasn’t made by Interflora!’ Rose loved her Sid dearly, but he was incredibly naive, Whatever a seller told him, he’d unconditionally believe. He’d bought left-handed drumsticks made for Ringo Starr,

And some of Anne Boleyn’s dandruff in a little glass jar. ‘She had no Head and Shoulders in those days,’ Sid had said.

‘Well she had shoulders, Sid, but definitely no head.’ Now Sid was at another boot sale, his 40th this year. What would he walk in with?

Van Gogh’s severed ear? Braveheart’s actual sporran, made with genuine Yeti hair? Or even Hitler’s missing . . . yeah, we’d best not go there. Whatever he brought in, Rose was determined to stay calm, As Sid now entered the kitchen, a cool-box under one arm.

‘Rose, you’re not gonna believe what’s inside of this cool-box!’

‘Don’t tell me . . . Scott of the Antarctic’s deep-frozen socks.’ ‘You’re being silly now, Rose, d’you really think I’m that dense?’

‘No, Sid, but at boot sales you lose all common sense. You keep buying rubbish from that con merchant seller. I mean, last month he sold you a Spitfire propeller. Just getting it out of the car was an act of sheer purgatory, And what was it really? A ceiling fan for a conservatory!’

‘But I’ve got a real bargain here, Rose,’ (Rose started to panic),

‘This is part of the actual iceberg that sunk the Titanic! I only gave the bloke 300, and it said 500 on the label.’ Rose began rhythmically banging her head on the table.

‘I can see you’re upset, Rose, but just take a look inside.’ Rose wiped the blood off her forehead, and duly complied. ‘Sid, it just looks like crushed ice, from a cocktail bar or boozer.’

‘Course it’s crushed, Rose, it’s been hit by a millionton cruiser!

Surely that’s obvious, Rose, I think your brain’s going soft.’ ‘So what’s this, then?’ said Rose, holding a black olive aloft. ‘Honestly Rose, at times you just haven’t got a clue . . . Even an idiot could see that’s Arctic penguin poo!’

‘But there’s green olives as well, like they put in a martini.’

‘Polar bear droppings, Rose, stop trying to demean me!’ Sid’s face said it all, without him needing to speak,

As a solitary sad tear slowly rolled down his cheek. ‘So, it is just crushed ice, from a cocktail bar or boozer. It hurts me to say it, Rose, but you’ve married a loser. I’m a fool, I bet the Picasso I’ve just bought is a fake. I’ll get it from the car and you can scoff at my mistake.’ Sid returned with the ‘Picasso’, which was another of his blunders, Picasso was spelt with a ‘k’, and was clearly painting by numbers.

Sid awaited Rose’s verdict as she examined the fake art, But Rose just couldn’t tell him — she couldn’t break his heart.

Sid was expecting her to confirm he’d been a monumental mug,

But Rose said: ‘It’s genuine, well done!’ and gave her Sid a big hug.

Sid would eventually know the truth and he’d feel like a clown,

But at least Rose could then tell him he wasn’t the only mug in town.