A Herculean Effort
By Dominic Horton
School
holidays, a rainy day. The cinema it was then for my son Kenteke
and I and his friend Smiley Nially to watch the action adventure film
Hercules. I gave Kenteke a tenner and told him to go and get
popcorn and pop for him and Smiley and some H2o for me and I'll sort
out the tickets. I didn't expect a bank note in the change from the
Aryton Senna but I at least expected a few nuggets of gold. The lad
dolefully doling out the tickets couldn't have been any older than
twenty but he was losing his hair and had a comb over. It's wasn't a
traditional Ralph Coates job, it was a bit more carefully sculptured
but it was a comb over nonetheless.
 |
| Ralph Coates, by request of Toby In-Tents |
It's
one thing losing the battle against baldness in your 30's or 40's
when you care about it less, or not at all, but having a desert of
bare flesh in the middle of your barnet at such a tender age is a bit
cruel to say the least. And he was no looker either. My crony the
Frymaster General told me that he likes being bald as he just shaves
off the remaining bits of hair so he doesn't need to bother combing
or washing it or any of that malarkey. And with the Frymaster being
the way he is I wholeheartedly believe him and he lives in
Stoke-on-Trent anyway and they are not big on vanity or fashion in
the Potteries.
I
took a twenty spot out of my wallet to pay for the tickets but I was
disappointed, but not surprised, to find out that the twenty didn't
cover the bill which was over twenty one quid, which I thought was a
bit of a liberty as two of our trio were kids. Then Kenteke ran
over to me waving the tenner saying that he needs another two quid
for the popcorn and drinks. Thinking this must be wrong I march over
to the snacks counter. Bless the kids they'd only ordered small
drinks and popcorn but the bill turned out to be right. I joked to
the young cashier that you need a second mortgage to go to the cinema
these days, which was a lazy and time-worn comment on my part, but in
my defence I was in throes of shock. The cashier didn't crack her
face at my quip but looked at me with disdain as if to say, “Look
mate don't blame me, I am not profiting from this extortion as they
only pay me the minimum wage, it's not a workers' co-operative you
know.”
To
the film. The house was virtually empty which suited me as the
rustling of sweet wrappers was kept to a minimum and it was not too
clammy with body heat, which was good as if the truth be known I was
still suffering from the after effects of the impromptu cocktail
evening in the Flagon & Gorses two days earlier, when I got
involved in drinking the improbable but winning mix of Cherry B and
stout. There was plenty of body heat in the film though, which
starred Dwayne Johnson, better known as the Rock, an almost
superhuman man of rippling muscle and testosterone and at 42 years
old he's the same age as me. If Johnson is the Rock that makes me
the Bibble (for readers not from the Black Country a bibble is a
pebble or a rounded stone. Yes I know a gag loses effect when you
have to explain it but what am I to do?)
Hercules
had to complete twelve
labours, a dozen difficult tasks, in order to be granted immortality
by the Gods. The labours included tasks such as slaying the
monstrous nine-headed Lernaen Hydra and capturing the maundering and
terrifying Cretan Bull. The ease with which the indestructible
Hercules completed
the tasks means that if he was ever to appear on I'm
a Greek Demi-God get me Out of Here he
would undoubtedly win it at a canter. All that said, one of the
assignments that the Gods prescribed was to steal the apples of
Hesperides; if the simple act of scrumping offers the key to
immortality then every youth from my Shell Corner childhood will live
forever. Which will at least please the landlord of the Clock Inn.
 |
| Cherry B |
But
the Gods did not lay down a really challenging test to Hercules such
as having to spend the day looking after two lively kids
trying not to sh*t oneself having eaten too many jalapeños the night
before after the pub. Or painting fiddly pipework in my Codger
Mansions bathroom (which is eerie and strangely cold on account of a
grisly suicide conducted there many years ago) whilst suffering from
the filthy post-booze terrors.
As
his final and most arduous test the Gods should have made Hercules
attend and endure a whole season of Aston Villa home games, which
would have most likely been too much for the poor lad. The great
Hercules would have stared down into his bovril at half-time Vs
Crystal Palace on a freezing January day, Villa losing 3-0 and down
to ten men, and proclaimed, “Sod immortality, I want to die. Now.”
All
the heroes in action films such as Hercules are lionhearted
warriors that officially have no fear. As regular readers of Lowlife
will know, I have plenty of fear
as I am a sufferer of anxiety disorder so most days I am afraid of my
own shadow. Hercules should trying having to brave the terrors of
Tesco Express to buy a loaf on a particularly nervy and anxious day
when the chatty cashier with the screw loose is lurking behind the
till. Such a daunting undertaking takes real gallantry, I can tell
you. I know that action films are merely fantasy but they would
give a more balanced view of life if they included less warriors and
more worriers.
So
what else has been going in the weeks that The
Seadog's Magic Winkle
saga has dragged on in these pages? Alexander Sutcliffe and I
embarked on a foreboding journey to England's frantic capital to
undertake a long overdue inspection of Lowlife's London
office, which is manned by the blithesome Barty Hook. Hook
explained that on the Sunday of our arrival that he would be working
until 1900 hours but we landed in London at lunchtime so we could
partake in our usual sacred Sabbath activity of beer worship in the
pub. Hook instructed us to drop off our bags in his flat once we
got there and we were greeted by his new Italian girlfriend Angelica,
who turned out to be delightfulness personified in every way.
 |
| Hercules, as portrayed by Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson |
After
a quick drink Angelica offered to show us around the locality. We
chatted as we ambled down the road at Angelica's leisurely
Mediterranean pace but Sutcliffe and I were like springed coils, keen
to get to the boozer. The first pub we came across happened to be a
Fullers' house so I told Angelica that Sutcliffe and I were going in
there and although we invited her for a drink she had things to do,
so she bade us farewell.
Many
hours later Barty pitched up with Angelica in tow and we were in the
very same pub where she had left us. Angelica asked us what we had
been up to for the last few hours and I stated that we had sat in
pubs all afternoon drinking. She looked at Barty in disbelief as
she thought we were kidding but he confirmed that is exactly what we
had done. A puzzled Angelica explained that sitting in a pub all day
drinking beer is foreign to Italian culture, where a couple of hours
in a bar might be taken up by playing chess and drinking espressos.
“Don't you get bored just drinking beer for hours on end?”
Angelica asked. Now it was the turn of Sutcliffe and I to look
baffled as in our world supping pints in a boozer all day is premium
fun and the antithesis of the state of boredom.
 |
| A Bibble |
The
follow day Barty took us into central London where we had to tolerate
the frenetic crowds, extreme heat and pollution infused humidity.
After hot trotting past Westminster Palace and the Cenotaph we
stopped for a relaxant in the first pub we came to, again a Fullers'
house. That set the tone for the day and thereafter we crawled
around various boozers, most of which were agreeable. While we
were in a pub called the Spanish bar in the evening Barty took a call
from Angelica and he explained under questioning that we were in
London central. “Oh good, you've taken them sightseeing”
Angelica enthused. “No, not exactly” replied Barty, “we have
spent all of the day in boozers.” If we lived in the Med we might
have gone to a café and sipped cold coffee whilst moving rooks and
bishops and the like around a chequered board. But as we are English
we stuck to a tried and tested winning formula and to drag ourselves
away from the pub would have taken a Herculean effort.
©
Dominic Horton, August 2014.
*
EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com..
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