Fifty Shades of Sufferance
Poor old Willy Mantitt, who is (so far) stoically sticking to his
ill conceived but admiral pledge to not drink from 1st June until
his second child is born, which is due at the end of the month. His promise
culminated in him having to drink non-alcoholic lager at a barbecue, on the
Sabbath as well, which in my estimation compounds the woeful misery of his
situation by tenfold. I vowed to Willy that I would think of him many times
today when I undertake my Flagoneering, one lament for his sorry state for each
pint that I quaff in the Pirate's Pleasure
Palace
As Willy has got rid of his Nobby Stiles (see Lowlife 20),
his newborn daughter will be born to this earth to a sober and pile-less father
which represents a good start to life for any child but if I were a betting man
(which unlike my mentor, Jeffrey Bernard, I am not) I would wager that one of
Mantitt's first acts on returning home from the hospital after the birth will
be to savour a glass of the refreshing and delightful drink limoncello, being
his favourite tipple. If Willy complies
with his covenant of sobriety the welcome contents of the glass will never have
tasted so sweet. After the happy event
of the wee Mantitt introducing herself to the world if Willy informs me that he
has complied with his pledge of dryness I will at first be amazed but also in
admiration of his new found will power.
This will be quickly followed by a dawning realisation that he is a
barefaced liar.
Talking of Willies, after Chilli Willy lost his bet to me regarding
the completion date for the renovation works at the Flagon his determination is
now such that he seems to have magically moved the project on even in absentia,
with him and his beloved, Carla Von Trow-Hell having been on holiday this past
week. The exciting development was revealed to me as I approached the pub last
eve when I noticed that the building is now proudly sporting colourful new
hanging baskets, which is entirely fitting given that the Pirate, is a renown
basket case. Such was my surprise at seeing the resplendent baskets that I
involuntarily exclaimed to myself, “blooming hell.” I thought momentarily that
I had been transported from the Stourbridge
Road Lincolnshire
Alexander Sutcliffe joined me for a drink on Saturday evening, in
order to recover from his recent trip to Falmouth
On Sunday to celebrate my success of finally securing a cheap tin
opener and to get over the harrowing experience of having to go shopping, I
popped into the Flagon for refreshment and to see what’s what. In the light of invaluable help that
Fudgkins has given the Pirate recently, the Pirate described Fudgey in
gushingly glowing terms and referred to him in aggrandised fashion as a
“saint”. I suggested that if we are to
treat Fudgey as a saint we need to have a beatification. In the past many people have wanted to
beatify Fudgey to a pulp but he always wriggles away in imp-like fashion. Bob being clean out of holy water, we
decided we would use lager for the beatification procedure as we did not want
to waste any of the decent beer.
I thought Fudgey was being beatified on Tuesday when the sounds of
choir boys annoyingly rang around the office emanating from the television in
the staff room, but it turned out that it was a ceremony to celebrate the 60th
anniversary of the Queen’s coronation. Such is this country’s obsession with
tiresome soap operas that I originally thought it was a bash to mark the 60th
anniversary of Coronation
Street
Late on Sunday evening in the Flagon Drew Monkey explained that a
helicopter had been hovering over the M6 motorway all day and he queried why
anyone would want to stay in the same position for six hours. Little did Drew know that as I had entered
the Flagon at tea time, like the helicopter, I had also occupied the same spot
for six hours. I didn’t so much hover
though as take root. Before you start
painting yourself a mental picture of me supping beer, laughing and generally
having a jolly decent time you should understand that I wasn’t so much drinking
as undertaking invaluable research for this column.
Despite my elongated spell in the Flagon I felt quite sprightly on
Monday morning, unlike poor old Barty Hook when he awoke on Sunday. Given years of experience, if there’s one
thing I have expertise in it is how to deal with a hangover but the excitable
Barty Hook (who is responsible for Lowlife’s London office) chose not to
heed my advice and he is now suffering the consequences. After enduring a sixteen hour drinking
session at the Epsom Derby Barty was in a state if disarray on Sunday, sick as
a pig and as weak as a kitten. Hook’s
internal organs were playing merry hell and he stated that, and I quote, “I think
my body is trying to eat itself.”
I strongly suggested Barty slowly start to re-introduce alcohol to
his system before the point of no return, being 1600 hours, but to no
avail. Instead Barty chose a day of
fifty shades of sufferance on his flea ridden sofa. After a terror laden trip on Monday to the
Victoria & Albert Museum Hook tried to claw back the situation by drinking
six pints of Guinness, a drink which he undoubtedly chose just to annoy me (see
Lowlife No 8), but it was a classic case of trying to shut the stable
door after the horse had bolted. I
blame no one for ignoring 99% of what I spout forth but I would hope that next
time in similar circumstances Barty will ingest my insightful guidance.
On the morning of the Sabbath Hook was flailing around like a
disorientated drunk in the dark trying to find the light switch as he was
attempting to find the right foodstuff to ease the chaos in his stomach. I recommended Barty chomp on Mini Cheddars,
which are innocuous enough but hold great restorative qualities, which is a
fact that can be verified by the Phantom. On a working Friday morning after a
boozy Thursday night the Phantom and I can at various times be seen trying to
tease Mini Cheddars out of the troublesome vending machine in the canteen, as
something savoury is needed to settle the stomach. The legendary Cheddars are like old Wild West
tonics that cure all ailments known to humankind, though at a premium of 74 new
pence per packet one is entitled to expect more than a regulation cheese
flavoured snack.
Weston Superleeds was consuming Mini Cheddars in the Flagon the
other day, but not to overcome biliousness but just because he likes them. Later that evening in a heartening turn of
events the gifted septuagenarian jazz guitarist Benny Kurrell presented to me a
pleasant little piece that he wrote about being locked in his porch and he said
he was inspired to write it after reading Lowlife, which was very
flattering to say the least. So Lowlife
has its first inspiree. And in the
absence of anything better, I will drink to that.
Postscript
Many congratulations to my good friend and work
colleague the Phantom and the lovely Mrs Phantom on the birth of their
beautiful little daughter Poppy. The
joyous news and subsequent photograph of the little wonder was greeted by a
smile on my face as wide as the gulf between mine and Willy Mantitt’s
respective incomes.
© Dominic Horton, 5th June, 2013.
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