The Lights Have Gone Out
Apparently on
Saturday my employers are generously going to switch off all the lights in its
offices between the hours of 2030 and 2130 hours in order to benefit the
environment as part of what’s known as Earth Hour. That is very honourable of the Bank given
that the vast majority of its offices are shut between those hours anyway and
will subsequently be in darkness.
I hope they
don’t turn the lights off at the Coven Cheese and Cider festival that I am to
attend as the band will be playing at that time and it will be an awful mess on
the dance floor, especially as Mr Still-in-Fjord is likely to be gracing
it. In addition to that I will have had
a few drinks by that stage and I will not be able to find my way to the bar in
the gloom, which would be disastrous.
Talking of
dance floors, while having an impromptu midday drink the other Wednesday, the
Phantom, the Man from Planet Bjazz and I invented the idea of having a
lunchtime disco for office workers in Birmingham
The benefit of
the lunchtime disco would be of particular importance to youthful married
people with children who struggle to get out on the weekend but like a boogie
and a drink. If such revellers worked
quickly, in an hour they could have at least three pints, followed by awful
“shooters”, French kiss someone on the dance floor, eat a kebab on the way back
to work before being sick in the office toilets. I can envisage wives across the country with
the look of suspicion in their eyes when their loves leave for work on a Friday
morning wearing platform boots, an open neck shirt with fly away collar and a
gold medallion, with their chins slavered in Brut.
Anyway getting
back to the thread (if there ever was one), given my drinking habits on the
Sabbath, if my employers want to switch off all the lights, computers and
telephones for an hour first thing on Monday morning it would be most
welcome. But if they did that my sober
minded, bushy tailed colleagues would soon get bored and bother me to “chat”,
which in the first hour of the working week is plain rude, or worse
malicious. On second thoughts, the Bank
had better leave the lights, computers and telephones on to protect my fragile
sanity.
After spending
the lion’s share of the day at the Pirate’s Pleasure Palace (better known as
the Flagon & Gorses) on Sunday with Jolly D, Fudkins and others, I wanted,
and fortunately got for once, a peaceful opening period to the working week.
I felt desperately sorry for Jolly D on Sunday. We had a rip snorting afternoon/ tea time in
the Flagon where everybody was in top form and it was a laugh a minute. You could tell that D was in no mood to leave
the pub but he appeared to have promised his missus that he would be back by a
specified time. He went through the “just
one more” routine twice before he finally realised the game was up and he
headed off into the sunset. And I
thought to myself, rather him than me.
Before strolling up to the Flagon I really should have done my pile of
ironing, or at least reduced it, but as ironing is a horrible spirit sapping
sport I decided to ignore it hoping that it would go away. Consequently, I was scrambling around for a
shirt to wear and all I could find was the one work shirt that I had ironed for
Monday morning. I couldn’t be bothered
ironing a leisure shirt, so I went out in the work shirt. The knock on effect of that was that I had to
iron a work shirt on Monday morning, which with the shakes was a precarious
task. If I had the dough I would hire a cleaning lady to do all of my housework
without a shadow of doubt.
As early Sunday evening descended Toby-in-Tents popped into the Flagon
for half an hour with his buoyant dog Sauvey, who was unusually calm during the
visit. On the basis of that brief stay
Toby now claims that Sauvey is boozer familias (see Lowlife edition 10) but that is akin to saying that my beloved
Aston Villa are a great team simply because we beat QPR on Saturday – Sauvey
will need to produce a run of consistent form to have me suitably convinced that
he can placidly dwell in the pub for any length of time.
Talking to Fudgkins, the concept of boozer familias again cropped up as
Sunday wore on. We discussed the
scenario that all drinkers know that if you are faced with having to visit an
earthly (i.e. dog rough and threatening) public house if you simply enter and
buy a pint and front it out, things normally turn out favourably. “After all,” Fudgey commented, “the worst
thing that could happen is that you could be stabbed to death.” Comforting words indeed.
In other news, my spirits crisis is over – Philly the Gent agreed to sell me 3 bottles of Martell Brandy for £30, which is an absolute steal. The Gent has a touch of the old gout again
and is not supposed to drink on the tablets that he has been prescribed, so he
ordered a coke on my round in the Flagon the other night and I never imagined
in my wildest dreams that I would ever have to ask him the question, “do you
want diet or normal.” The brandy was just the pick me up I needed after the disappointment
of the Cheltenham Gold Cup, which I haven’t forgiven the Frymaster General for,
given his appalling tip. After Saturday
evening’s trip to see the Stranglers with the Frymaster and Jonty Von Rossi, I
mused that the last three times I’ve been out with the Frymaster he has behaved
himself and it’s giving me cause for concern because I can foresee all his
suppressed roguishness exploding spectacularly like a dormant volcano, such as
happened with the Elton John fiasco at Belbrougton last year.
A few of us were camping at Belbroughton
Beer Festival last summer, except for Sleepy Tom Parker and his entourage as
his long suffering girlfriend Struth refuses to camp and I don’t blame her given that she would have to
share a tent with Sleepy Tom. After the
beer festival the Frymaster invited me to have a nightcap with him outside his
tent, which turned out to be rank, warm scrumpy which had been festering in his
motor all day, which was the last thing I needed after a dozen odd pints of
real ale.
The Frymaster decided to put some music on
his car stereo to add to the general ambience and within no time at all Elton
John’s Rocket Man was blaring out,
which always gets me but that’s another story. Within no time at all a woman popped out of
her tent and urged us to turn the volume down a little as her young daughter
was trying to get to sleep. Just as I
was about to say, “of course my love, apologies” the Frymaster got there before
me and told her where to go in no uncertain terms. The woman was less than pleased about the
Frymaster’s unwitty retort and things were getting slightly heated but I
managed to get Tez turn Elton down to an acceptable volume level.
When I went to water the bushes the
Frymaster sneakily turned the volume up loud again and the whole palaver was
repeated with the woman getting more aggressive, much to the Frymaster’s
amusement. On that note I took my bow
and retired to my pop up tent.
When I awoke in the morning there was a
breeze blowing in through a gaping hole in my tent. I remembered that I had got up to wee in the
night but in my befuddled state I couldn’t get out of the tent so for fear of
swamping myself I had to rip my way out like the Incredible Hulk.
After Alexander Sutcliffe supplied
digestive biscuits and cheese and onion crisps for breakfast it was time to
depart but poor old Barty Hook was in a less than optimum state so he plumped
for a lie in. He was rudely awoken at
lunchtime by the security staff who told him to strike camp and f*ck off.
When the bleary eyed Barty finally emerged
from his tent, looking like Papillion after a spell of solitary in a French Guiana gaol, he saw that only one other tent
remained in the field, being the tent that I had left behind given the
significant rip in it. Being tainted
and confused, the puzzled Barty thought that I had been abducted by aliens in
the night, so it was to his great disappointment when he contacted me later
only to find I was recovering in the tranquilizing environment of the Flagon
& Gorses.
Postscript
My thoughts and
warm wishes are wholeheartedly with my dear friend Mark Rutter (Lowlife’s the Imp) and his family as he
has Leukaemia again and is currently being treated in hospital for the
condition.
Mark has proved
on a number of occasions beyond reproach that he has the heart of a lion and a
relentlessly stoic and positive outlook towards adversity and these immense qualities
will stand him in good stead in the testing times ahead. I will be there with you my friend.
© Dominic Horton, 20 th March,
2013.
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