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Happy Days is dead.

For the modern Bath drinker, Happy Days is one of landmarks of the post-sobriety scene. He wandered into the bar and exclaim, at the top of his eighty-eighty-year-old lungs, "HAPPY DAYS!" before going on to drink, approach people and greet them in a barely quieter reiteration of his initial exclamation. He wore a suit. He had a twinkle in his eye. He was drunk or mad or both, and acted as a Ghost of Christmas Future figure for the drinking classes. Except happier.

Happy Days's real name Fred Angell, though the name refuses to stick in my mind. I had to cut and paste it from the article above. He's Happy Days. That's who he is. Or was, rather.

The last time we say Happy Days, he was wobbling across a crossing. Waiting patiently in an expensive car was two beautiful rich girls. Half way across, Happy Days notices this, turns to face the vehicle, raises his hands in the air, waving them both frenetically at them, before shouting his catchphrase. It's not a bad way to remember someone who's been as much a part of the Bath scenery as the Christian austerity of the Abbey.

Happy Days is dead.

It is a sad day.




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