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.
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