Lowlife 42 - The Pirate ate my Hamster!

The Pirate ate my Hamster!

The paterfamilias of the Flagon & Gorses, being the irrepressible Pirate, seemingly wants to exercise such control over this column that it will soon bear the heading, “written by Dominic Horton, edited by Bob Van Vliet [the Pirate’s real name].”   (Incidentally Don Van Vliet was the real name of the late, great Captain Beefheart; The Pirate is more like Captain Beerfart.)  When we are in conversation the Pirate’s catchphrase to me has increasingly become “Don’t put that in Lowlife” but after saying that to me last Tuesday in the next breathe he advised me to not let the truth get in the way of a good story.  So it appears that the journalistic approach that the Pirate desires of me is to not write truths about the various goings on at the Flagon & Gorses but to lie through my patched up teeth.  Mind you, given that the Pirate’s main goal in life is to peddle beer (and drink it for that matter) he did have a valid point in censuring me for recently writing about the joys and benefits of sobriety.   But the Pirate should realise that given the falderal quality of these dispatches that no one takes a blind bit of notice of its contents anyway, so he need not fear that what I write actually has the slightest bit of influence on the actions of others.   Nonetheless, I have to report that I have been to the Flagon every night this week and drunk eight pints of their delicious beer on every visit and I feel absolutely on top of the world.   Honest guv.

Mother Teresa has upped the ante in the Flagon by frequently warning me with the threat “Don’t you dare put that in Lowlife.”  The additional “dare” is intended as a four letter word in every sense as it is full of devilish malice, so I heed her portending warnings for fear of fatal retribution.  

Later on in the early evening on Tuesday last The Pirate and I were discussing counselling and the subject of the difference between, and usefulness of, sympathy and empathy cropped up.   We loosely agreed that the distinction between sympathy and empathy is as thus: a man is stuck in a deep, dark hole with no way out.  Sympathy walks up to the hole and hears the man’s desperate cries for help.  Sympathy shouts down to the man, “I am sorry that you are stuck in that horrible hole, here is a sandwich” and throws the man the food and departs.  Empathy wanders up to the hole and seeing the man in there he jumps in and comments, “It’s ghastly down here isn’t it mate, we are never going to get out and we are both f*cked.”  While the man isn’t looking Empathy then proceeds to eat the sandwich.  I am not sure how this adds to the interpretation of the nature of humanity but you can all make your own mind up on that score.

Counselling did help me overcome my recent difficulties and fortunately the counsellor didn’t eat my sandwich.  Despite the assistance of the counsellor I am still having the recurring nightmare that has been prevalent in my night time life for as long as I can remember but there was a pivotal moment last week in this regard.   The nightmare is difficult to describe but it basically involves a being or a presence travelling up the stairs towards my bedroom with what I sense to be venomous intent, though it could be bringing me a cup of hot cocoa for all I know.  I always wake up when the evil presence is approaching the bed but before it gets to me.  But all this changed last week when the cunning spirit actually made it to my pit and I could feel it, with what felt like clear reality, pressing down on my body, almost like it was sitting on me.  I woke in blind terror, screaming, sweating and short of breath and quickly realised it was just the old nightmare that had taken a sinister turn.  Pondering the unnerving dream the following day I mused that it has taken decades for the phantasm to actually make it to my bed and once it got there all it did was to sit on me, so I realised that there has been nothing to be scared about all of these years after all.  It might be the case that the phantasm fully intended to do me harm but as it has been clambering up the stairs for years by the time it eventually got to me it was cream crackered, so all it could do was to sit on me to catch its breath.   So it transpires that the phantasm is far less of a threat to me than the Baby Faced Assassin at the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away. 

In other news on my nocturnal habits, I seemed to have progressed to visiting the toilet twice in the night as opposed to once (which previously used to be at pretty much 0300 hours on the dot.)  On the odd occasion the bathroom visits have even numbered three. (I say bathroom visits but toilet would be a better word to use as the toilet and bathroom are separate in my Codger Mansions dwelling; if I were to visit the bathroom for a tinkle I would have to do it in the sink as you know men should only do this if they are sleep walking or in the most desperate of circumstances.  I don’t know why more properties do not have separate bathrooms and toilets as it can be very off putting if you are trying to have a relaxing hot bath while a few feet away the wife is having a dump.)  Anyway, my visits to the downstairs toilet in the night are becoming so frequent that if it gets any worse I might as well just make life simple and sleep on the karsi.

Despite multiple night time visits to the toilet I have generally been getting enough sleep and I have been partaking in a few early nights as I have not being going out as much as previously.  The only problem with staying in more is that I have fewer things to write about and earlier this week I was struggling to think of anything to scribble for this edition and I was completely devoid of ideas, suffering from writer’s block.  The American poet William Stafford said of writer’s block, “There is no such thing as writer’s block for writer’s whose standards are low enough.”  It looks like I am the exception to the rule then as my standards as lower than a snake’s b*llocks and I would write any old balderdash just to fill these pages.  Advice on overcoming writer’s block that I read stated that, “go ahead and write drivel at first, as long as you write” but that what’s I do anyway and I seemingly lost the ability to do even that.  Ernest Hemingway’s advice was to avoid writer’s block was, “The best way is always to stop when you are going good and when you know what will happen next. If you do that every day … you will never be stuck.”  But as my going is never good this offers no resolution to the problem.   Anyway, eventually enough gibberish started to flow again to populate this edition.

 

One person who has been purveying gibberish this week is Hugh Pennington, professor of bacteriology at Aberdeen University, as he claims that people who put their shopping into reusable bags are putting their health at risk by using the bag to carry raw meat and soil-covered vegetables, as it increases the risk of food poisoning.  According to Pennington even if the raw meat is wrapped in a separate plastic bag it is still highly risky. This is a good example of my long held belief that there is a lot of rubbish talked about hygiene.  How does Mr Pennington think that people used to carry their shopping in the days before plastic bags? And does he think that impoverished little old ladies who use shopping trollies should buy a new one specifically for each shopping trip?  It is a cheap bullying swipe to have a go at the innocent soiled vegetable; to my mind washing vegetables is a waste of one’s time and energy and a having soiled vegetables is better than having soiled pants.   Gawd help Mr Pennington if ever he were to be presented with a photograph of the state of my oven, I think he would have a seizure on the spot and that he would envisage that Codger Mansions is a rat infested hellhole.  Talking of rodents, did I mention that the Pirate ate my hamster?!!........................ 

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

Lowlife 41 - You only Live Twice

You only Live Twice

In the witty and jocular book The Meaning of Liff by John Lloyd and Douglas Adams (which was recommended to me by Dick the Hook) a tincleton is described as “A man who amuses himself in your lavatory by pulling the chain in mid-pee and then seeing if he finishes before the flush does.”   My long time crony Still-in-Fjord is without doubt a tincleton as the chain/ pee challenge is exactly the type of antic that he revels in.   Still-in-Fjord’s favourite tincleton type pastime is the checkout game which works as follows: when he does the monthly shop at the supermarket and he has dozens of items to purchase he has to ensure all the items are bagged up immediately after the checkout operative has slung the last item from the conveyor belt to the bagging area.   To avoid a build-up of un-bagged items Still-in-Fjord staggers the placing of loose fruit and veg on the conveyor belt so the checkout operative has to periodically slow down to weigh the items, thus allowing him to ensure that all goods are placed in bags.

One man who will not be able to enjoy the pleasures of the checkout game is 37 year old Alireza M.  Last week the BBC reported the incredible story of Alireza M, an Iranian prisoner who was convicted on a drug trafficking charge and was sentenced to death, who was found alive in the morgue after he was believed to be dead as a consequence of hanging for twelve minutes.  Undeterred by the prisoner’s astounding defiance of the rope the Iranian authorities plan to hang the man again when he has recovered to health; the way he is going he will be hanged more times than a painting in the National Portrait Gallery.   No doubt that when the prisoner came round he thought he was in the afterlife before quickly realising that it was a miracle and that he had not died and was still alive.  However, his unbounded joy would have been short-lived as he noticed the prison guard standing over his bed, who quickly soured his mood by saying “That was only the dress rehearsal our kid and when you are better we are going to hang you for real.”    The story is akin to a man surviving a shipwreck only to be eaten by a shark after almost swimming all the way to the shore.   If the prisoner is a tincleton he will no doubt try and defy the rope next time round for more than his previous record of twelve minutes in order to make the otherwise grim experience more entertaining for himself.  This is no laughing matter of course and I should add that as an ex-member of Amnesty International I oppose capital punishment and human rights abuses generally.

The BBC also informed us last week that British Gas energy prices are to rise by a whopping 9.2% from November 23^rd and this British Gas announcement was especially untimely as it came on the same day that the Daily Express reported that we are set for the worst winter in over 100 years with record breaking snowfall predicated by some experts for next month.   The price rise comes after the "big six" energy companies outlined price rises of between 6% and 10.8% between August and December last year.   The only consoling thought is that the big freeze/ energy price rise is not quite as bad as Alireza M’s double whammy.   Impoverished tincletons the country over will no doubt be challenging themselves to see if they can see the winter out without freezing to death.

Codger Mansions is far from being a warm property and the bathroom is always chilly, even in the height of summer, and this is believed to be the case because a previous owner of the property committed suicide in the room.   The only thing I can think of to dispel the frosty aura of the bathroom is to offset the suicidal death by the room hosting the birth of a new born baby to restore parity.  It is a shame that I didn’t think of this idea earlier as my work colleague from the valleys Rhydderch Richnerds had some good news this week as his lovely wife Angelica gave birth to their first child Adam Ronald Paul, my congratulations go out to them both.   Whilst sitting in the Flagon & Gorses last week I received a photograph via mobile phone from Richnerds of young Adam, who is a very pleasant looking little new born.

A photograph of a different nature formed part of my agenda on the day that Adam was born.   As a Christmas present my ex-wife Selena generously bought a gift voucher for my son Kenteke and I to have a free portrait picture with a professional photographer and I only got around to arranging the appointment for the photo shoot a couple of weeks ago for one reason and another.      The results of the shoot (which I viewed this week) only just fell short of a disaster; Kenteke looked great in all of the shots but I looked awful, especially my skin, which was dryer and ruddier than normal, despite me moisturising before the shoot; I had an appearance not dissimilar to Michael Gambon’s character, Philip E. Marlow, in The Singing Detective.   I was tasked to choose one photograph from the dozens of snaps that were taken and I managed to quickly narrow it down to three photos, which were the only ones in which I didn’t look horrific.  However, on two of the pictures it appeared that I had a belly sticking out due to the way my shirt was sitting, so that ruled them out and the choice was effectively down to a solitary photo, which was a more sympathetic long shot.  Even the sepia snaps did me no favours.  Photogenic I am not though I hoped that the photographer would have done a better job of using tricks of the trade to soften my displeasing appearance in the pictures.  Mind you as Willy Mantitt put it, she’s a photographer not a miracle worker.

It would usually take a miracle worker to transform the cuisine on offer in the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away into something approximating the palatable but despite this knowledge on Sunday my arch nemesis the Baby Faced Assassin, who occupies front of house in the establishment, again used his mesmerising powers to draw me into the shop in a trance-like, moonstruck state following the saliferous aromas, like the boy in the fabled Bisto advert.  A change of tack by me, ordering a plain beef curry and friend rice, produced pleasing, if not wholly gratifying, results.    By siphoning off some of the oleaginous matter from the stodgy dish I managed to partially isolate the beef and onions and once they were liberated from the gelatinous sauce and assimilated into the rice it formed an edible, inoffensive meal.  I cannot claim this as a victory over the Assassin, especially given the repellent aftertaste in my mouth on Monday morning, but I am at least counting it as a score draw.

The culinary highlight of last week was the cheese night at the Flagon & Gorses but as the slices of cheese that were served were so humungous the plate was more calorific that than a normal three course meal and resultantly I was left bloated for days and full of fromage, which was my own fault of course for displaying such unabated gourmandism.   The cheese was so plentiful I even took a fair proportion of it home thereafter putting some in my lunchbox for the following day but when I came to eat it I was still so infused with cheese that, like a picture of the late Margaret Thatcher, I struggled to face it.   The cheese bloat at least accelerated my recent quest for some new, comfortable work chinos (see Lowlife 36) and after systematically trawling around most department stores and gentleman’s clothes retailers in Birmingham I at last managed to find a pair that were cut half decently and not skinny fitting.    I found the trousers in British Home Stores, a denizen of middle age chic, and they were competitively priced at £20 and there was even the option of a single pleat version, which I have searched for in vain for many a moon. 

Standing in British Home Stores hunting for relaxed fitting chinos is a sign of one’s tenuous grasp on the hand of youth rapidly slipping away and it acts as reminder of the greatest paradox of ageing: as time moves on one’s body and demeanour slows down but a person’s relative perception of time speeds up, that is a day to a middle aged person appears to them to pass quicker than the same amount of time experienced by a child (numerous studies have verified this theory).    Time itself does not speed up as one grows older of course but one’s perfection of it so logically with the right psychological tool a person’s viewpoint of time could be once more decelerated.  To begin to even think about the solution to such an abstract concept is beyond my meagre intellect but I do know that there are few more stark reminders of the speedy passage of life than the two signs yards apart from each other on the Stourbridge Road, that can be seen by looking out from the door of the Flagon & Gorses. The signs read, “Halesowen Youth Centre” swiftly and ominously followed by “Halesowen Cemetery.”

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

                                                                                               

                       

Lowlife 40 – Working on the Chain Gang

Working on the Chain Gang

Three straight nights of sobriety; I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  Though last night I did have a fleeting, longing look at a cold bottle of the wonderful Aldi Steinhauser German lager (which I am convinced is rebranded Becks) which is nesting in the fridge before having an admonishing word with myself.  I then turned to do the washing up and the bottles of ale in the wine rack seemed to beckon me but again I resisted before spotting the vodka when I was rustling among the bottles for some squash but it was only a brief flirtation and I determinedly stuck to the squash.  I have realised that I take great pleasure in putting a “0” in the “Units consumed” column for the day on the Aquarius five point alcohol reduction plan, it is a similar sense of satisfaction to earning a clean sheet in a game of football, which being a defender was my principle objective.  Pleasure can also be found of course in clean sheets in a different context when getting into bed after changing the bed linen, which usually happens once a week in Codger Mansions in order for me to eschew complaints from Alfie the teddy, who does after all spend infinitely more time in bed than me.

On Monday morning I found that clean steps and not clean sheets was what the cleaning man at Snow Hill Station was desirous of as I found him mopping the station steps without much enthusiasm or vigour; the reason for the lack of zeal in the cleaning man’s approach was that he was idiotically undertaking the mopping task during the morning rush at 0845 hours, just as commuters were streaming out of the station to their various offices and workplaces in the city centre, so the steps were once more dirtied as quickly as he had cleaned them, leading to him having to continuously repeat his actions.  Incredibly when I reached the office I was greeted by the sight of the resident Mr Mop undertaking exactly the same action as his Snow Hill station counterpart, resulting in comparable results. (The office is on the third floor of the building and I always take the stairs to provide me with a modicum of exercise before sitting on my ar*e for eight hours.)  I hazard a guess that in their former lives both men worked on the chain gang of a state penitentiary in Mississippi and had to break bricks and the mopping and re-mopping of steps in some way gives them a degree of comfort and connection with their former lives.  Both fellows need to go back to school to reconsider their respective mopping tactics.

(As an aside, in matters relating to cleanliness, or more accurately a lack thereof, the line of the week goes unequivocally to Ung Pirat who described his father’s (i.e. the Pirate’s) chaotic and dishevelled room as “a ‘70’s charity shop that has exploded.”)

If Messrs Mop and Mop returned back to school they would find themselves in the middle of a crackdown by the authorities on parents taking children out of class during term time to go on holiday, much to the consternation of many parents who can ill afford to go away in the school breaks.  I would imagine that the stricter regulations will lead to many parents claiming that their children are ill so they can go on holiday.  This tactic could pose problems if families go to clement destinations as it will look very suspicious if the child returns to school with a glowing suntan.  Given this potential issue I predict that there will be a boom in holiday bookings to Iceland and I have rustled up a few pennies and bought a share in Icelandair.  Flagon & Gorses dignitary the Abdul can be spotted in Iceland most weeks, not the country but the supermarket in Halesowen, buying a stock of frozen chicken tikka lasagnes.  If families do visit hot locations on their illicit holidays they will have to dress their children in burkas to prevent them acquiring a suntan or force them to inhabit one of those funny little tent like shelters whilst on the beach to keep them out of the sun.

One schoolboy who will most probably not complain about not being able to go on his jollies during term time is the bespectacled Harry Potter as on the evidence of the film that I watched on Saturday night with my son Kenteke Potter seems to be having a jolly and japing enough time at school as it is.  Mind you, if ever Hogwarts were to be visited by OFSTED they would be sure to fail the inspection as amongst other things the pupils’ lives appears to be under constant threat.  During the film (the Prisoner of Azkaban) one of the Hogwarts teachers even turned out to be a werewolf, so the school cannot be CRB screening the staff, which even I know is a basic requirement.   Incidentally, the physical appearance of my old cohort the Frymaster General is so similar to that of a werewolf that it is said that on a full moon he turns into a human.

Despite it not being a full moon the Chancellor George Osborne had to visit the Chinese in a state of desperation this week but I empathise with him as I often have to do the same, usually on a Saturday night after closing time.   That said since my last despatch I have managed to avoid my nemesis, being the Baby Faced Assassin who lurks behind the counter of the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away and I feel a lot better for not having ingested his fatty oriental wares.

Although I did not suffer the unusual tastes of the Rhareli Peking this week, on Sunday in the Flagon & Gorses Chilli Willy did serve me an intriguingly drink called a Shrub in order to illicit my opinion.  I couldn’t place the alcoholic content of the drink; at first I thought it tasted like a very bitter cider (or even a cider gone off) that was mixed with black currant and tonic then I suggested to Willy that the drink contained sherry. Willy said no on both counts.  The drink tasted curious and unusual but was pleasant and different.  Chilli Willy eventually confessed that it is a non-alcoholic drink and that it is a form of vinegar mixed with tonic.  Willy plans to sell the drink and other “adult” soft drinks in the pub soon, which will be a welcome addition.  If the Flagon are to sell adult products they might want to enlist the services of Dick the Hook who has well known expertise, professionally speaking may I add, in that department.

One thing that is neither tasteful or intriguing is the proliferation of charity street sellers that litter Birmingham City Centre; it is like playing British bulldog walking down New Street trying to dodge past them but they still try and accost you even when it is obvious to all and sundry that you are making great efforts to navigate away from them.  Mind you, the only thing worse than being stopped by these street sellers is not being stopped by them, especially when you are the only person in their proximity, as it feels like an affront.  By not stopping you when you walk past them they are effectively saying to you, “I’m not even going to bother wasting my time approaching you pal as by the looks of it you haven’t got a pot to p*ss in.”  If the charities want to place their staff on the streets, instead of bothering people for money they may be better employed approaching passers-by who are clearing in need and offering them assistance, e.g. “ee are mate, let’s go and buy you a new coat because frankly the one you are wearing is a complete disgrace and if you are waiting for it to come back into fashion then don’t bother as it was never in fashion in the first place and we both know that if you try and wash it to remove the filth and grime that the coat will perish in the process.”   So that’s the Lowlife lowdown on charity, next week: no faith, lost hope, all matters religious and Pope on a rope.

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

Lowlife 39 - Last of the Summer Insobriety

Last of the Summer Insobriety

You will most probably not believe me (and I could hardly blame you) but I only had a total of three pints last Sunday as in my new regime I set myself a limit of eight half pints but I only felt the need for six halves before I headed off from the Flagon & Gorses into the night.  I felt a bit cheated on Monday morning though, as despite eating before and after the pub and drinking plenty of water I had a faint headache (which ironically is not something that I normally get if I drink a great volume of beer [unless I add cider into the mix]) but it transpired to be a product of an oncoming cold, which I have most likely procured second hand from Toby In-Tents.   

Additionally, on Saturday night after drinking five pints of beer at Hugh Queensbury’s 40^th birthday party I entered previously uncharted waters by having a pint of coke (bold italics intentional for emphasis) and it was a free bar to boot.  I did follow the coke with three VATS (small may I add), so all in all it was a night of unprecedented reserved moderation, which I was pleased about.   It was a rare pleasure for me to see Barty Hook, Gusty Monsoon and Hugh Queensbury in a more intoxicated state than me and long may it continue. On leaving the party at the Duke William in Strourbridge at 0130 hours Barty insisted we repair to the River Rooms, being the local night spot, despite there only being half an hour until close of play.  Fortunately for me the doorman refused us entry so I was able to retreat back to Codger Mansions for an economy brand fish finger sandwich (“easy on the tartar sauce please Jeeves”) and a bit of Match of the Day (which I had recorded) before bed.  Maybe if Barty had taken the gentlemanly measure of removing his flat cap the doorman would have allowed us entry, in which case I was grateful that he kept the offending hat firmly lodged on his glabrous head.

I sincerely hope that feelings of crapulence are well and truly condemned to the past.   I realise though that I must not become complacent as the next unfettered p*ss up could only be round the corner so I need to be on my guard, especially given the liberal drinking habits of most of my cohorts and associates.

Despite the relative sobriety over the weekend I was disappointed to find on Monday night that I had the reoccurring nightmare that I customarily have on the first completely sober night of the week.  Maybe the nightmare is not linked directly to booze consumption (or lack thereof) but is the Archfiend’s way of reminding me that he is always lurking ominously in the shadows of my existence.

At Queensbury’s party a friend told me that he is having a difficult time in life and as he does not have my telephone number I offered it to him on the back of a beer mat (in time honoured tradition) and encouraged him to contact me if he needed help or a friendly ear.  I later found the beer mat sitting dolefully abandoned on the bar in a pool of beer.  So much for Horton’s counselling services.  The friend obviously estimated that talking to me for half an hour would make his condition markedly worse and he is most probably right.

After the Comet voucher disaster last year (such voucher being rendered useless after the business in question had the indecency to go into liquidation before I had redeemed it) I am keen to cash in all vouchers that are gifted to me soon after receipt, so after the tight chino debacle (see Lowlife 36) it was back down Next this week to find a suitable clothing item.  A rather attractive cardigan (or so I thought at the time) caught my eye so I bought it and I didn’t even need to try it on as the size guide informed me that medium size equates to a 39” to 41” chest and with me being a 40” it should have fitted perfectly. 

On return to Codger Mansions in the evening I tried the cardigan on but to my dismay I found it to be woefully small and to compound matters it made me look like a pensioner; I did not notice the patches on the elbows of the garment in the shop, though the free packet of Fisherman’s Friends with every purchase should have given the game away.  In my mind’s eye I can clearly see my late Grandad Tommy sitting in his easy chair, studiously tending to his pipe in a similar cardigan to the one in question.  On a second visit to the shop I exchanged the medium sized cardigan for a large version, which despite being described as 41” to 43” chest was a little taut.  I took the cardy hazarding that it would stretch a little once worn in the Flagon & Gorses where no doubt the Abdul and Liam Redwood will take great glee in verbally ripping it to shreds.  I can take such mockery on the chin though, which unlike the Abdul I at least have the civility to shave.

The cardy should help me ease even closer to the Peter Sallis look that I have been unwittingly trying to perfect in recent months, all I need now to complete the outfit is a flat cap but I refuse to wear such a titfer as it will make me look like Barty Hook (who rudely wears his indoors, which is apparently now socially acceptable in London, even at the dinner table. Let us hope that such slovenly behaviour does not spread further north and infect the good citizens of the Midlands.)

Another clothing mishap that has occurred this week has been the mysterious disappearance of my favourite and trusty blue boxer shorts that have had the misfortune of being in situ on my person for many a year (not every day though I hasten to add as I do periodically wash them).  I hope that the underwear in question is not lost forever, especially as we have been through so much together. As I live alone it is difficult to mislay clothing items during the laundry process especially as I have put fool proof procedures in place to ensure all items are present and correct, including the practice of washing my socks paired up (I have yet to encounter anybody else who does this but to my mind it is a no brainer and ensures that a Spiderman sock is not matched up with a Heart of Midlothian away kit counterpart.)

The boxer shorts are in none of the places that they should be and they are not even in the one place where they might have sneakily hidden, that is being buried deep in a laundered duvet cover.  Even Alfie the teddy knows not of their whereabouts.  I hope my dear son Kenteke hasn’t put the boxer shorts on by mistake as it will cause much laughter when he gets changed at football training with the boxer shorts on him looking like Don Estelle’s shorts in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.

I am so fond of the boxer shorts that even when the seat or crotch (or both) perishes in the future I had planned to elongate my relationship with them by using them as a duster, which would at least introduce a hint of pleasure into dusting and polishing my Codger Mansions dwelling.

Thinking back, my emotional attachment to the boxer shorts could be because they might well be the first pants that I had to part cash with to procure; I remember buying them from BHS on Union Street, Birmingham.  Prior to that transaction my Mom would buy my pants, they were gifted to me on my birthday or at Christmas or (shamefully) they came pre-loved from my older brother Albino Duxbury.  

Pants could also occasionally be acquired if a forgetful player of roughly the same size left a pair behind at football; this was the only perk of having to gather in all of the soiled and sweaty playing kit, which was a chore us committee members had to undertake (except for captain Willy Mantitt who would speedily shower and head for the bar, which were ironically his quickest movements of the afternoon.)  For reasons of self-dignity I would only use pants gained at football for footballing purposes (hiding them while they gained access and egress to my person in the dressing room in case the true owner spotted them) but if Harry Gout found a pair they would instantaneous be catapulted to best pants status given the state of the rest of his underwear.   

A rumour has circulated for many years that Gout stole Chompa Babbee’s football underpants while the latter was away fighting in the Falklands War but the rumour has never been properly substantiated.  While Chompa was embroiled in the Battle of Goose Green, Harry Gout was having a battle with goose pimples on an unseasonably cold springtime football field, so he allegedly pilfered Chompa’s racing green football pants as an additional warming pair.  When Gout was confronted with the allegation on Chompa’s return from the Islas Malvinas he retorted, “In all honesty, it’s all a load of pants.”  And that, as they say, is that.

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

Lowlife 38 - Oh Bête Noire, I’ve gone Too Far

Oh Bête Noire, I’ve gone Too Far

I have little knowledge about the majority of things and on some subjects I have less than no knowledge, which is a difficult thing to achieve when you think about it.  I often wonder if people who are the opposite of me and who are good at pub quizzes just have a lot more general education and expertise or whether they just have better memories and the ability to instantly recall information.  The knowledge of the average taxi driver these days seems to be appalling and on several occasions when jumping in a cab in Birmingham city centre the cabbie has no idea where Halesowen is, let alone the Flagon & Gorses.  It always amazes me that London cabbies are a different breed altogether and know even the most obscure places and how to get to them.

One thing I know a little bit about is drink and drinking, which is nothing to shout about and it is ultimately often a boring subject.  After foolishly drinking too much in the last week or so (due to an unfortunate and partly unforeseen set of circumstances) I am the second day into the hideous and diabolical process of drying out, with all its horrors and physical and mental creaking and jittering.  In the middle of the night my pancreas became very angry and demanded booze and when I denied it its desires it persistently nagged me to such a degree that I had to haul myself out of bed to take painkillers, which fortunately took the edge off the situation.  In its astringent state the pancreas tried to agitate the liver into niggling me also but the latter organ is a more kindly and forgiving soul and it fortunately let me be.

Drinking to ward off the inherent sadness and loneliness of the world is not an astute thing to do and eventually it always adversely compounds things but at least little bête noires appear to keep one company.   During a recent counselling session the therapist asked me why I sometimes drink on my own at home.  I replied something along the lines of if you are accompanied by a drink that you are no longer alone, there is more than one presence in the room.   Maybe the second presence is the dreadful Diablo himself, who is only topped as a personal nemesis of mine by the Baby Faced Assassin at the Rharely Peking.   I thought I had finally outfoxed the Assassin last week as I simply ordered curry sauce and chips, thinking that surely such a simple dish must be inoffensive.  How wrong I was; the chips turned out to be like little bits of cardboard and the curry sauce looked like an extra from the cult Irving Yeaworth film The Blob.  As ever, the Baby Faced Assassin won again.

Although my boozing is generally contained, in order to ensure that I suffer the indignities of alcohol retreat on a less frequent basis, I have employed the Aquarius Five Step Process drink reduction plan.  (Incidentally, Chompa Babbee has been undertaking the Bobby Sands waist reduction plan and has eaten virtually nothing for three weeks.)   As part of the Five Step plan you have to set clear, achievable targets to reduce drinking and of course stick to them.  If you fail to meet the targets you can either chide yourself severely or buy a bottle of Tippex and cheat.  I would guess that some of the more desperate cases who are on the plan might even drink the Tippex. 

The literature contained in the plan suggests such things as telling your pub landlord to not serve you after you have had a set amount of drinks but as the Pirate in the Flagon & Gorses is usually as p*ssed as me such a plan is doomed to failure.  It is also suggested that when one is a good boy and meets the targets that a reward or treat is in order but as in my case that would mean a skin full in the Flagon it would be somewhat self-defeating.

One good thing about not being able to sleep last night was that the frenzied activity in my mind at least generated a germ of an idea as to what I was going to write in this nonsensical column this week, as for the first time since I started writing it I had no idea what I was going to bang on about.  I was so devoid of any ideas that I was seriously starting to think that I would produce no column at all; I can already sense my readers thinking that they had wished I hadn’t bothered and given them a week off for good behaviour.  But it is vitally important that I plough on with the column otherwise I will not have the excuse of having a soiree when I reach the fiftieth episode. 

All writers are fearful of a blank piece of paper and most are equally afraid of an empty glass.   Often filling the glass leads to filling the page and in my case that is true to a degree as (as regular readers know) a large slice of this column is sometimes based around the whimsical happenings at the Flagon & Gorses.   In my defence though when I write I am sober, but sometimes hung over, which is state that I often leads to writing productivity. If the Five Point Plan is successful (and I am determined that it will be) it might resultantly destroy the little bit of creativity that I have if I cease to have mornings where I operate in a less than optimum state, which will make it a very pyrrhic victory indeed.

Matters relative to literature could have been better this week.  Firstly, I had the dawning realisation that the book that I have been writing about my pub life in the Flagon is, not to put too fine a point in it, rubbish and it would be better served as being used as toilet paper as opposed to being read.  The fundamental problem is that pub life (and the utterances of the pub’s regular brethren) is by nature repetitious and although us inmates love it, looking in from the outside it can be very boring.  Barroom punters often repeat stories, some of which were not even funny or entertaining in the first place; I am sure that I have certainly been guilty of it on a number of occasions.  Additionally, my heart has not been in the book for some time and consequently I have not dedicated the requisite amount of time to it.  And if you don’t put in the time you won’t earn the dime.  I know that I am going to have to start the book again with more enthusiasm and vigour if I want it to be a worthwhile venture. 

Secondly, the literary agent that my brother, Albino Duxbury, recommended I contact has not got back to me despite me contacting him some three weeks ago.  It transpires that the agent is going through a messy divorce and that he has also acrimoniously split up with his long time business partner and he is basically having a mid-life crisis and nervous breakdown.  He sounds like the perfect literary agent for Lowlife.

The last agent of any description that I had was a pools agent who looked like Charles Manson and given his uncanny likeness to the infamous murderer I distrusted him to such a degree that I packed in the pools and took up the National Lottery.  I am unlikely to win the Lottery now as I no longer buy a ticket but if I did I would not be best pleased about the price rise from £1 to £2 for a ticket, that was announced today.  This price rise is in accordance with the current practice of retailers of anything and everything of putting up goods and services by a ridiculous amount instead of a few mere pence.  If the Pirate follows suit and puts up the beer in the Flagon by a pound a pint the Five Point plan will be superfluous to my requirements as I won’t be able to afford to drink anyway. 

Day one of the Five Point plan, being yesterday, was successful as I met my target of zero alcohol and today I am also on track for sobriety; I am confident tomorrow can be dry as I am looking after my dear son Kenteke in the evening.  On Saturday it is Hugh Queensbury’s 40^th birthday party and I have set myself an upper limit of five pints of beer but if I breach that I can always blame Lowlife’s London correspondent Barty Hook who is travelling up from the Smoke.  You know what they say, when things go wrong if in doubt blame someone else.

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.