Lowlife No 33 – Half Pint to Heaven

Half Pint to Heaven

Mentally I am at my best and most alert in the mornings and that is when I tend to write this nonsense but physically I am at my worst and most decrepit first thing. I feel like an octogenarian and my back nags at me and my legs feel like concrete. Lord knows how I will feel in the mornings if I reach a ripe old age. On peeling myself out of bed this week I’ve felt particularly dilapidated as I have had the pleasure of being with my dear son Kenteke, which involves a lot of football, cricket, tennis and generally running around. The physicality of playing sport with Kenteke has probably enfeebled me more than ever due to my third mid-life crisis, which is now passing quietly by without me having the customary tattoo.

The mid-life crisis has at least brought about one positive change, being that of me drinking half pints instead of full pints in the Flagon & Gorses. I have been using the half pint tactic for over a week now and the experiment has been wholly successful which has had obvious health benefits but also great financial attractions too; my beer consumption and expenditure on it as been reduced by fifty per cent. It is a novelty leaving the Flagon with bank notes in my wallet and brightness in my eyes.

The new approach has been so successful that when I was faced with drinking a pint on Sunday it seemed like a foreboding amount of liquid. I have taken my own half pint glass to the Flagon, which has a handle and a thick, glass bottom, as psychologically it appears that I have more beer in said glass than in a regulation half pint glass and I for one fall for the optical illusion every time. The real beauty of the scheme is that the more that I drink, the more money I save. A typical pint in the Flagon is £2.90, so I am saving £1.45 every half pint that I drink which means that instead of drinking six halves I need to drink twelve, which will mean I will save £17.40 instead of £8.70, thereby generating more money. I think that I have unwittingly invented a drink yourself rich scheme and I may write a book on the subject which could rival Dr Atkins's diet book as an international best seller. I shall call the book, Half Pint to Heaven, which is a cross between the titles of two songs, Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven and Billy Fury's Halfway to Paradise. When the readers of the book realise that they are being conned the book will go down like a lead zeppelin and they will show me a great deal of fury I am sure.

I could use the money that I am saving from decreased beer expenditure to re-join the gymnasium, which I quit for mostly fiscal reasons a few months ago, especially as they sent me a message in the week informing me that I could now subscribe with them at the reduced rate of £20 per month, as opposed to the usual rate of £32. However, this type of marketing does not generally attract me as if they had offered me the deal when I was a member I would not have left in the first place. Car insurers use the same warped marketing approach. When your insurance runs out your current insurer will often quote you significantly more than the year before, which prompts punters to search for a better quote. Once you have opted for the cheapest quote you inform your current insurers that you are not renewing with them and they then instantly offer to undercut your new quote by reducing the extortionate price they gave you in the first place. At this point I always suggest to my current insurers to naff off, informing them that I have no time for their sneaky, underhand techniques.

My decision to leave the gym in the first place was mostly financial but I was also constantly irritated by the awful, blaring music that was pumped out, from which there was no escape. If I attended the gym when it opened at 0630 hrs occasionally they would take pity and would refrain from subjecting me to the unmelodious dirge and it was pure bliss but after a while the thumping music would begin, shattering the early morning peace and it seemed even more bothersome at that hour. To make matters worse the gym appeared to only own one CD, so the same nauseating tunes would be played time after time and I would be unable to shake them from my mind during the day. I believe the KGB used to use a similar torture tactic. I do not know why gymnasiums have to play music at all as if a member wants to listen to music during exercise they will bring their own portable device to play it on. I sometimes used to take a personal radio to the gym to listen to a broadcast on BBC radio but it was no use, as I could not hear the programme above the din.

The inhabitants of Umpalungu, Zambia also have the ability to make a din as I witnessed this on television whilst watching a rerun of Michael Palin's Pole to Pole the other day. A man was up for murder and an odd “trial” was being undertaken with the local witch doctor orchestrating proceedings in a room packed with onlookers who all seemed to have the words “guilty” burning in their gazing eyes. They whipped the accused's shirt off his back, knelt him down and bunged a live chicken on his head before making him perform a shuffling sort of dance. The hearing was accompanied by the kind of repetitive, hypnotic and foreboding music that the Africans excel in. All in all the accused must have been sh*tting himself. The whole débâcle was being undertaken in a bungalow, so it was comparable to a Darby & Joan club meeting on acid. Frustrating Palin did not announce the outcome of the trial or what became of the chicken. The Africans definitely do things differently, but different does not necessarily equate to wrong.

Lowlife has not yet quite taken off in Africa but I found out by accident last week that the column has shockingly been read by unfortunate readers in places as far away and diverse as Russia, United States, Germany, Ireland, Holland, Australia, Poland, China and France. China?! Who on Earth in China would want to read this? I can only assume that the Baby Faced Assassin from the Rharely Peking Chinese take away has recommended Lowlife to his family back home, which would be a real turn up for the books. Whilst waiting for some of the Rharely Peking's delectable haute cuisine the other Saturday, which I ordered out of desperation, I quizzed the Baby Faced Assassin behind the counter on Chinese art and asked him politely if he could enlighten me a little on the subject. To my dismay and indignant disgust the Assassin replied that he knew nothing about Chinese Art, which in that instant I found to be altogether unsatisfactory. It was not until I thought about the incident later, as I munched on my Szechuan Beef, that I realised that the Assassin is entitled to know sod all about the art of the Orient as it is not a prerequisite of being employed in a take away in Halesowen after all. If the Assassin showed his baby face in the Flagon and asked me to provide him with a few nuggets of information on English art, I would be equally baffled as I do not know a Turner from a Constable but I do know a decent pint of bitter when I taste it.

It is round two with the counsellor in the morning and I hope it all goes off as well as my visit to Shulman, my Indian dentist wizard, today. My early reservations about Shulman (see Lowlife No 9) have completely melted away and he has gone up in my estimation immeasurably. Today Shulman again exhibited his new age dentistry techniques and he subjected me to an executive tooth polish which he undertook using what appeared to be a mini drill that merely pleasantly tickled the inside of my mouth. My teeth have not gleamed so much since childhood and due to Shulman's neo-dentistry I feel like a new man. More importantly, Shulman gave my teeth a clean bill of health (even the cracked, half molar), which was especially important as my current funds would not have stretched even to the tiniest of fillings. As I left Shulman's surgery my only regret was that I wished that I had asked him for a brief synopsis on the history of Indian art.

© Dominic Horton, August, 2013.

Lowlife No 32 - Psychiatric Flirting & Moth Death on the Skirting

Psychiatric Flirting & Moth Death on the Skirting

Only at Codger Mansions can you find disabled moths. On Tuesday a diminutive moth was writhing on the games room floor and going round and round in circles, which seemed to be the product of one of its wings being defective. I am not an insect murderer generally and given my current anxious state of mind I prevaricated for a full ten minutes deciding whether to put the moth out of his misery or whether to simply usher the insect outside. The moth kept up the circling routine for the full ten minutes and I admired his fitness, strength and determination, though the poor beast must have been quite dizzy. Eventually I thought that the most humane course of action was to end the moth's days as I strongly suspected that he would never recover from his serious injury so I impaled him on the skirting board. I do hope a fellow moth did not spy me squashing the crippled insect as I could be up in front of the insect court for mothslaughter, or even worse, murder. 

If the moth was known to have been depressed because of his wing wound I might be accused of assisting suicide and this may be illegal in Mothdom, as it is under the laws of England & Wales. If a moth equivalent of the Dignitas clinic in Switzerland exists, I am not aware of it and your actual Dignitas would most probably tell the maimed moth to buzz off. All in all I am comfortable that I can be that I took the correct course of action, though I fear that after today's wasp incident that it has left me a bloodthirsty desperado wishing death on innocent insects.

Earlier today in my mother's garden wasps had enacted a pincer movement against my mother and she was surrounded, so she instinctively threw a banana skin across the other side of the table in hope that the wasps would be attracted to it instead of her. Mom shouted out her displeasure at the pincer situation so within an instant I had acted to counter attack the wasps and I slain one (that was showing an interest in the banana skin) with a vicious and fatal blow using a paperback book. I usually simply encourage wasps to fly away but such was the stressfulness of the internet shopping that I was ensconced with that it pushed me to the brutal act. The deceased wasp at least had the honour of dying in battle and I hope his family take comfort from that, though I hope the military hierarchy save the family from the embarrassment of knowing that the fallen wasp died as a direct result of a genuine banana skin fiasco.

Prevaricating is not something that I can afford to do in banging out this column given that it is Thursday evening and print deadline is Friday and tomorrow will be taken up (as the rest of this week has) looking after my dear son Kenteke. If truth be known dear Kenteke has probably been looking after me as opposed to the other way round and being in his company has dragged me out of the low mood that I have been suffering in the aftermath of the demise of the Imp and Alfie C. Anyway, if this week's edition seems more rushed and of a poorer quality than normal (if normal does indeed exist in these pages) then that is because the column has been hastily written and edited and as a consequence it is fundamentally sh*t.

At least as from yesterday I have the benefit of Wifi again which means I once more have access to the indispensable Thesaurus.com, which has more to do with the composition of this column than I do (after all I am only the author.) Lowlife might give the impression that I have a certain amount of command of the English language and a more of less adequate vocabulary but nothing could be further from the truth. If it were not for the invaluable assistance of Thesaurus.com, these pages would read like a birthday card written by a three year old, or worse still Wayne Rooney's autobiography penned without the aid of a ghost writer.

Talking of virtual illiterates, Barty Hook paid a visit to the parish on Sunday in order to attend his late Uncle's funeral on Monday and I offered poor Barty my sincere and heartfelt condolences for his sad loss. Anyway, Barty insisted that I attend the Flagon & Gorses on Sunday evening and my regular reader will know that I do not normally need a second invitation for such frolics on the Sabbath but on this occasion it posed me difficulties due to the meagre amount of pennies in my dwindling coffers. I could hardly turn Hook down in the circumstances. Barty kindly offered to see my all right, but in my depressed state I feel it hard to accept kindness and besides it would mean I would owe Hook a favour, which he would most likely call in at the most inopportune juncture humanly possible, just to put my large nose out of joint.

I realised that I needed to develop a new drinking strategy in order to sustain myself through the evening to manage on the paltry budget that I had. I refuse to drink in the house before I go to the pub as I see this as common in the same way that many people view me as common. After giving the poser a few moments thought I deduced that if I drink half pints I would slash my expenditure by a handsome 50%. The downside to the strategy was that it would also reduce my alcohol volume by exactly half, so development of the approach was needed. I decided to alternate halves of stout with halves of real cider, which in theory should have the effect of slowing down my consumption and as a consequence make my pennies last. It would be like an off key and long drawn out snake bite. I am delighted and proud to say that the plan worked out a treat, in fact it worked out too well and I was in a more tipsy state than if I had drunk the equivalent amount of halves in pints but sticking to beer. So a bit of fine tuning is needed.

Monday was most definitely a classic day of two halves and ironically two halves is all the Pirate would allow me to consume, more of which shortly. Monday morning was characterised by a world class display by me of crying and being unable to move off the sofa and it is the best I have done at this depression lark since I sank into it. I eventually managed to mobilise myself mid-afternoon and I went for a long and reinvigorating walk in the fresh air and sunshine, which culminated with me ambling towards Halesowen town centre. Although I am not mathematician, I calculated that I had enough cash in my pocket to buy three halves of beer, so I rewarded myself with refreshment I the Flagon & Gorses. Although the ramble had done me the world of good as soon as I had parked my rear in the bar I felt very low again and unusually for me being in the Flagon, I had no desire to talk to anyone so read the newspaper, or tried to but I could not concentrate on it. When I was about to finish my second half the Pirate, sensing my impoverished state, offered to buy me a pint and despite my prolonged efforts to decline his kind offer he furnished me with a pint, followed latterly by another. The hour or so I spent conversing with the Pirate, the roguish landlord of the Flagon, was a welcome tonic and it was the first time I had laughed or smiled that day; my mood was lifted immeasurably.

Today brought the first session of a more formal variety of talking therapy, being counselling. The first appointment of a course of counselling usually consists of a bit of horseplay, whereby the counsellor tries to discover your problems and background and you simultaneously try to suss out the counsellor; it is like psychiatric flirting. The counsellor had an Ulster accent, which I always find oddly comforting and trustworthy. I say “oddly”, given the conflict that raged in Northern Ireland throughout my childhood and until very recently. When my elder brother, the Albino, and I were kids if we were to visit Birmingham city centre my Mom would always caution us to be careful, given the IRA pub bombings in 1974 and to this day I always have a sense of uneasiness in the city centre. In the late 1970's I was unlikely to visit a public house and if an incendiary device had of gone off there would have been little I could have done about it anyway, but Mom's anxiety over the matter was of course perfectly understandable. I return to the counsellor next week for round two, where I hope I can get my filling-laden teeth into the matter and turn the flirting into proper intercourse, but not of the sexual variety you understand.

© Dominic Horton, August, 2013.

Lowlife No 31 - In the Black

In the Black

On Tuesday I picked Tom Holliday up from his house in Stourbridge to retrieve his car from Albright & Wilson's social club, where he left it after Alfie C's funeral. We drove past a pub called the Model and I told Tom that I had received my first text message on a mobile phone in that particular public house, while I was having a pint with the Frymaster General and Jonty Von Rossi, many years ago. The message was from the Imp and it baffled me as I did not know how to reply, but someone kindly showed me and I soon got the hang of it. Originally I had gone against the popular flow of having a mobile phone as I was content enough not having one and I saw the technology as being more of a force for bad as opposed to good; I surmised that mankind had survived perfectly well for centuries without everyone carrying a personal telephone in their pockets all of the time, so I thought that I would simply go on living without such a device, especially as it just seemed another way of eliciting money out of me; cash goes out of one's pocket to be replaced by a little plastic telephone.  

Despite my reservations I ended up acquiring a mobile phone eventually as Gorana Holliday kindly gave me one gratis, as she was given it as a freebie when she bought a new computer. So I unwittingly entered the world of mobile telephones and I have been burdened with one ever since. Mobile phones can play havoc with etiquette. For example, if I am in company I do not like to spend time interrupting the conversation by replying to text messages but equally if one does not reply to the messages promptly it could be seen as ill mannered by the correspondent in question, so the whole thing is a social minefield. With mobile telephones, email and social networking you can be contacted at any time at all and you can no longer use the excuse, “I was not in when you called.” Also, people expect a reply right away and feel put out if they do not get one and that creates a pressure all of its own. Taking the telephone off the hook is no longer an option.    

In 1971, the year of my birth, the majority of people did not have a telephone and so communication was often slower, more cumbersome but more considered as a result and you often had to go via a third party to get your message across. For example, my Grandad Charlie and Nanny Gladys never had a telephone so you would have to call his next door neighbour Les and either leave a message with him or ask him to drag my Grandad around to his house so you could actually speak to him; if it transpired that you had interrupted Grandad from watching the boxing he would be less than impressed.  

Many of you will remember the terror as a teenager of having to telephone a potential girlfriend for the first time and hoping and praying that she picked up the receiver, as opposed to her mother, or even worse her father. Many is the spotty youth who has put down the telephone on hearing the voice of the parent of the girl in question. Then there were those boys who would brave out the parent and ask to speak to the girl only to be asked their name, which they would dutifully provide, only be be further quizzed, “Do you mean Peter Richards or Peter Jones?” The calling boy (whose name was neither Richards or Jones) would then think, how many f*cking Peters is this girl going out with?!

On the odd occasion I am free from my mobile telephone it is quite liberating but equally if I forget to take it out with me I feel horrified and panicky without it, especially when I am not with my son Kenteke; it can feel worse than forgetting your wallet. When I am at Villa Park with Kenteke I pay no attention to my mobile telephone for 90 minutes of complete concentration and when I was in Clun last October for Still-in-Fjord's 40^th birthday celebration I had no signal so it was not a consideration for the day and it was like a breathe of fresh air, especially as I was in good company and in wonderful hostelries. 

I managed perfectly well without what is now seen as an essential technological item, a computer, until I started to write this nonsense and I would imagine that most of you dear readers wish I hadn't bothered. There have been technical issues in producing this week's Lowlife as the kind, unknown gentleman or lady in the vicinity who has been providing me with complimentary Wifi has suddenly and inexplicably withdrawn the service. I can hardly complain as firstly I do not know the identity or address of the person in question and secondly I have been piggy backing their Wifi for months without having to pay. That said, I do provide Lowlife free of charge, so I suppose what comes around goes around. I could start to charge readers for the privilege of reading this column but I would suspect that my meagre readership would reduce to just one as a result, the one being Willy Mantitt who is eagerly awaiting his opportunity to sue me for libel for deformation of character. Mantitt's character is so badly deformed that unlike Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man, the best psychiatrists could not rebuild it (or so it has been alleged by others, in case Mantitt's lawyer is spying. Mind you, Mantitt tells me his lawyer is not much use and that he is the legal equivalent of the hapless Frank Spencer).

Talking of psychiatrists, I had an encounter with one such this week in order for him to assess the state of my mind, which currently is more deformed that Willy Mantitt's character. In my experience I find psychiatrists to be a slightly different breed to counsellors, with the former being more business like and scientific and generally lacking in humour. When he asked me if I would rather not be single and if I would like a partner I replied “that is the best offer I have had all week”, but it did not go down very well to say the least. The chap that I spoke to was trying valiantly to display what are known as soft skills but he was clearly going against his nature.  

I should not complain about psychiatrists as I am also somewhat lacking in humour at present. In my experience there are many paradoxes with depression; I feel very lonely but I do not want company; I don't want to go out but neither do I want to stay in; I feel exhausted after doing relatively little; I know that I am a good man and not a hopeless fool (though many will feel that is at least up for debate) but I do not want to admit it to myself, even though that would help lead me on the path to get out of this horrid condition. 

The little bit of gaiety I had left was wrung out of my bones by my utilities company, who seem to be another large PLC business who cares not a jot about the punters who help feather the shareholder's nests. Although the utilities companies make vast profits they still continue to put up the prices by a ludicrous amount year on year but despite this to my surprise and glee when I had sight of my last bill it stated that I was actually in credit by £302, which is a minor miracle considering that Codger Mansions is colder in winter than Hannibal Lecter's stare.

Being out of money and the wrong side of pay day by a fortnight I was quickly on the blower to my power provider but the telephonist at the other end of the line explained that in fact I was only £202 in credit. When I queried this she came out with a long and convoluted reason for the discrepancy and she hastily sent me a revised bill by email. I was promised the refund within four days but lo and behold this did not happen, so again I called only to be told that due to “systems issues” it would take a further ten days to send me the refund. I can imagine what the Pirate's response would be at the Flagon & Gorses if I ordered a pint but stated that I could not pay for it for ten days due to systems issues. 

Ten days elapsed and, yes you have guessed it, I was still denied my money so I complained to the company in question and I insisted that I be put through to a manager who stated, “my apologies Mr Horton that you have not received the refund of £92 but …....” at which point I interrupted him to remind him that the sum of monies in question is £202 not £92. The manager explained to me that the figure of £202 was based up on a guestimate on their part but as I had now provided them with meter readings (as I never fail to do, so why they needed to estimate my bill I do not know nor could they explain this) my account is in fact only £92 in credit. The manager promised me that he would personally ensure that I received the monies within another (yes another) ten days. My current mental state means that I am already losing the will to live but this sorry episode made me feel blacker than ever, which is ironic as my utility bill account is the only one that I have that is in the black. 

© Dominic Horton, August, 2013.

Lowlife No 30 - I do Like Mondays

I do Like Mondays

I do not subscribe to this “I don't like Mondays” mentality. That shaggy haired Irishman Bob Geldof has a lot to answer for and no squire, I will not give you my money, as I have none; I would have to further extend my overdrawn position so it would not be my money anyway but that of my bank, so you might as well go directly to them, especially as they are loaded. In my estimation, in terms of the best days of the week Monday is second only to the luxurious and oft decadent Sunday. Once I have dragged myself into work on a Monday it's time to chat to the Mexican about the weekend's football in between working tasks and more often than not I go for a run at lunchtime in order to sweat out the weekends toxins, of which there are many. Monday evenings sees me listening to the wisdoms of Steve Claridge on BBC Radio Five before undertaking the calming journey to the Flagon & Gorses to see the usual incumbents of the Abdul, Weston Super-Leeds, Richie Ramone and old Tomachezki and I also have my weekly chat about music and other topics with Benny Kurrell. Carla Von Trow-hell and Chilli Willy provide the drinks and the Weasel pops a bag of crisps shortly after arrival, so all in all it is a jolly little gathering at the Flagon on a Monday evening. So I do like Mondays.

The exceptions are the Monday two weeks ago today and next Monday as both dates bare the unpleasant burden of funerals; the former Monday being the Imps and the latter Alfie C's. I think long and hard about what to write in this column with such sad events being so keen in the memory of so many and I also consider whether to write this nonsense at all or whether to suspend it until happier times. But I have paid my written tributes to both the Imp and Alfie C in these pages and after all Lowlife goes on and I would wager that my dear departed friends would not want it any other way. I have eaten an omelette and pickled egg respectively to the Imp and Alfie's memories and I miss them both more than I am properly able to articulate.

Fortunately, the Pirate did not make it a triumvirate of deaths after his recent heart scare and not even the curry that I cooked him (low fat and salt I should add) has killed him off. He scoffed the curry last weekend and he counter attacked me yesterday by providing me with a portion of chilli that he had cooked earlier in the day. The Pirate explained that the chilli contained no onion, which was not a culinary ploy but was on account of him not being ars*d to take the five minutes walk to Halesowen town centre to procure the vegetable in question.

The Pirate continued that the chilli does however oddly contain milk, which he claimed he added on purpose, after I had suggested he had accidentally spilled the milk in the pot. My guestimation is that the Pirate made the chilli so unbearably hot that he added milk to the brew (in the absence of cream) as a last desperate measure to calm the fiery mixture down. All the milk has done is give the chilli a curdled appearance. I am too nervous to go anywhere near the radio active chilli at present and it currently dwells in my fridge like a nuclear time bomb ready to explode. On any account, the chilli will have to wait as I have other food stuffs in a worse condition than the chilli that need to be consumed as they are on the turn. The cabbage and bacon soup that I cooked was an inch short of being sublime (even if I say so myself) but once you have battled your way through seven portions over the course of a week, eating the soup becomes more akin to an endurance sport rather than a pleasant dining experience.

In addition to the satanic chilli I also gained something else from yesterday's pilgrimage to the Flagon; the challenge of doing a ten kilometre fun run for charity with Toby-in-Tents. Toby cunningly used all of his powers of persuasion to hoodwink me into doing the run with him, that is he bought me a pint of bitter. The word “fun” is not synonymous with running in my book, given its bothersome nature. I run to ward off the onrushing tide of fatness not to have fun and running seven odd miles with In-Tents wheezing and spluttering next to me does not sound like an appetising experience, it will only be the thought of the post-event trip to the Flagon to rehydrate that will keep me going. The only small crumb of comfort is that In-Tents is not a natural athlete and is only content in a sporting context if he is knocking seven bells out of someone, so I will have to run quicker than him to stay in front as I know that if he catches me he will most likely clobber me so hard that I will have to complete the course in the back of an ambulance.

Toby suggested we meet at 1800 hours in the Flagon yesterday but when he had not arrived within the hour (and had sent no message) I started to get a little concerned. That said I was having such an agreeable time with the Pirate, the lovely Mother Teresa and Pat Debilder that I had not noticed that In-Tents was AWOL for quite some time. On arrival with the lovely Samuka Dudlovski and his faithful hound Sauvey, In-Tents claimed to have been “clearing out the loft” with Samuka. I am not sure what the expression “clearing out the loft” is a euphemism for but I can take an educated guess.

Prior to In-Tents and Samuka's arrival Mother Teresa mothered me in the most adamant of fashions as she gave me strong advice about my love life, or rather lack of it and she counselled that in her estimation I need to find myself a good woman. Teresa is undoubtedly right in her view but there are many benefits to being on one's own, the most obvious reason being that I am free to frequent the Flagon on a Sunday tea time, which is exactly what I was doing at that precise moment in time. In fact, if I procured a poor, unfortunate woman then I would most likely not be able to see Mother Teresa in the Flagon on a Sunday and she could not offer me advice, so resultantly the whole thing would be somewhat self defeating. I did not say this to Teresa at the time of course as I am generally slow witted and my wits had been further blunted by the delicious beer that the Pirate peddles.

My wits are particularly slow at the moment as I have been a little depressed after the two bereavements and the counsellor I spoke to has referred me to my old friends at the psychiatric services, who I am not looking forward to seeing but who I know will do me good, much like the taking of cod liver oil. However, unlike the taking of cod liver oil psychiatric treatment is not over in a flash and I bet the psychiatrists were expecting me back at some stage, like a mentally ill boomerang. It has been eight years ago or so since I last had a little soiree with them so all in all I suppose I have not done too bad. I hope they take to my suggestion of having our cosy little chats in the back room of the Flagon & Gorses but I would hazard a guess that the idea will go down like a lead balloon.     

In these pages I do of course jape about the Flagon & Gorses and its inmates but in all earnestness the old place and the people in it have been a great help and comfort in lifting my lowly spirits. I call the Flagon “the Pirate's Pleasure Palace” for good reason and no matter how bad I am feeling in life I always leave it in a far better state of mind than when I entered and that was even the case the other day when the bemused Pirate witness me drink two pints of lemonade, which were probably more damaging to my health than two pints of bitter.

The counsellor today told me that going outside for an hour, even on an overcast day, produces forty times more serotonin than the equivalent amount of time sitting indoors, so she advised me to get outside as much as I can. It is not my fault that the Flagon has no beer garden, I thought. Instead of going to the Flagon & Gorses I today sought fresh air by suffering the punishment of gardening. The positive effect the outdoors had on my serotonin levels was far outstripped by the negative effect on my mood that the gardening had, so consequently I felt more depressed than before I left the front room.

I had my fair share of fresh air after a wonderful dinner at Hugh and Natasha Queensbury's as I opted to leave my car Pat there and walk home (as I was in doubt as to whether I was over the drink drive limit) and the following day I ran back to their characterful house to retrieve old Pat, who after spending the night in Cradley Heath, like me, looked a little depressed.

© Dominic Horton, August, 2013.