Farming Breeds: Stan – the butcher
Join us for a funny, irreverent look at some of the characters that make the British countryside what it is. Our tongue-in-cheek guide puts characters such as the retired Major, the “perfect” next-door farmer and the young tearaway under the microscope. Here we meet Stan the butcher, with a tidy line in banter…
Stan, by his own admission, was never no good at school. “Couldn’t get on with it – all that learning.
So he left as soon as he could (with a little encouragement from the headmaster) and, after working his way through the meat trade, got his own shop. Sal’s, he called it – after the missus.
Stan met Sal when he was 16 and married her soon after when she got in the family way. “Fancy coming out for a spot of rabbiting tonight,” was how he asked her out the first time. Needless to say, they didn’t do much rabbiting.
“Sal’s – Purveyors of Finest Meats.” It still brings a smile to Stan’s round, red-as-apples face, seeing the sign above the door.
He’s a respectable member of the community now. Gives youngsters their first break. Gives them a trade. Kids who like him weren’t no good at school.
Stan’s done pretty well all told. He’s making a nice little living from the shop. A tidy packet. Not that he’s ever admit it, of course, and he does work hard for it. In the shop before daybreak, home after dark. And it’s not easy running a butchery business – not nowadays with the “veggie brigade” and the red tape and the competition from supermarkets. But Stan can offer the customer one thing the supermarkets struggle with – personal service.
Stan, by his own admission, was never no good at school. “Couldn’t get on with it – all that learning.
“How’s your hip, Ethel, my love?” he asks one punter as she shuffles through the door in search of cheap liver. “How’s that old dog of yours, Mark, mate?” he asks the next one to arrive. All the ladies are “my love”. All the men are “mate”.
When it comes to names and faces, he’s got a memory like an elephant. And, for someone who couldn’t get on with maths at school, he’s a dab-hand at tallying up the bill.
Stan’s a bit of a comedian on the side. He makes suggestive remarks about sausages before chatting about the weather, the state of farming and politics. And his customers rarely leave without an armful of meat. Stan waves them off, smiling. “Call again see you soon, my love,” he says, scratching his moustache, thinking about trading-up the motor.
Sal, meanwhile, is out the back, doing the necessary to a dead animal, wielding a knife with the same manual dexterity Stan shows. The same-sized muscles, too.
Stan hasn’t got a neck, but he’s got arms as thick as forequarters and a face like a bull. You rarely see him without a blood-stained apron on. He could be quite frightening, really, if you didn’t know him. But everyone does know him – he’s Stan purveyor of finest meats.