I was mildly offended that my good friend
the Imp described me as a “downtrodden bachelor” after he had read my last column
but the more I think about it, and the more I honestly and frankly critique
myself, the description is wholly and unnervingly accurate. There
was some discussion amongst the pair of us as to whether a divorcee could be a
bachelor but it transpires after research that a bachelor (within the relevant
meaning of the word) is simply “an unmarried man.” I admit that it is not really in question
that I am downtrodden, so the Imp’s description of me is hereby duly upheld.
As a counterbalancing comment, which I am
sure he intended to be consoling and assuaging, the Imp asserted that although
I could be seen as a downtrodden bachelor in my working life, in the context of
me being a patron of my characterful local, the Flagon & Gorses (a beacon
of real ale goodness), compared to other drinkers there I am something of a
style icon. I think that “style icon” is
stretching everybody’s imagination a little bit too far but I appreciate the
Imp’s backhanded complement nonetheless.
I received complimentary comments from
some quarters about the debut of this column last week, for which I am
eternally and wholeheartedly grateful. I
should make it clear that the content of last week’s column (i.e. my finances
being in the same perilous and precarious state as the Premier League status of
my beloved Aston Villa) was not intended to elicit the charity of any reader
but I am nonetheless highly thankful for the offers of assistance in order to
obtain new work trousers. One reader
even alluded to setting up a fully fledged charitable organisation with the
sole aim of obtaining decent britches for me (I suggest such charity could be
called Strides.)
Other reactions to last week’s column were
mixed. My associate Toby in Tents
outright accused me of being a pessimist – I countered that with suggesting
that my younger brother, Roger, is a pessimist (which is acknowledged and
agreed by all and sundry), my elder brother, the Albino, is an optimist but I
am a realist. Fortunately in the debate
that ensued Toby in Tents failed to issue the killer blow to me by quoting the
following directly from last week’s column, “my glass tends to be half empty.” Ironically at the time we were in the Flagon
and my glass was indeed half empty (or half full, depending on your
standpoint.)
The Imp
asserted that if I did not part with so much cash in the Flagon that this would
free up sufficient funds to finance the acquisition of a suitable pair of
trousers. On the face of it the Imp has a valid argument but it misses the
point entirely, which is that money spent by me in the Flagon is a sound and
wise investment. Whilst in the Flagon I
am peaceful, relaxed and happy; by investing monies behind the bar, as do other
patrons of the house, I am helping to continue the existence of the fine and welcoming
establishment. It can be seen as a
mutual investment scheme, with us regular attendees and drinkers as
members. If you can divorce oneself from
the concept of life being about no more than financial and material gain for a
second, such enriching concepts as I have just described can be seen as worthy
endowment.
Which brings me untidily onto people who
choose not to drink in January in order to “de-tox”. The immediate post Christmas period is the
very time when pubs and their landlords need the support and attendance of its
brethren as trade tends to be quiet enough as it is; I would imagine that my
colourful friend the Pirate, the landlord of the Flagon & Gorses, would
support this view. Although it could be said that my judgement is clouded and
warped by drink, to my mind sobriety is not the spice of life.
© Dominic Horton, 15th January, 2013.
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