A
Sting in the Tail
By
Dominic Horton
There
have been strange occurrences this week in the ever thriving Codger
Mansions insect community. I was sitting on the karsi leisurely
reading the fascinating book Interesting & Extraordinary
Football Facts by Anton Rippon and I spotted an ailing bug
limping across the floor that I can only describe as half spider half
woodlouse, which means that a spider and a woodlouse must have been
sh*gging in a romantic corner of the Mansions in order to produce
such an odd little creature. The product of this cross pollination
was a pitiful creature who didn't have enough legs to carry his plump
crustacean body, so dragged himself along slowly. This meant that
the spide-louse would be a sitting duck for those awful people who
use a rolled up newspaper to thoughtlessly batter all and any insects
that have the temerity to enter their precious homes. Fortunately
for spide-louse I am an insect pacifist and generally let them get on
with their daily business, with the exception of wasps, who I escort
forcefully but peacefully off the premises.
 |
Donny
Darkeye, by request of
Toby In-Tents.
|
People
commonly pursue and callously execute wasps, hornets and bees who
they have condemned to crimes against humanity without so much as
holding a kangaroo court. But there seems to be less wasps this
year for people to mercilessly butcher and the other day BBC
television news posed the question as to why this is the case. The
reason for the shrinkage in the wasp population was put down to the
old chestnut of climate change, which usually gets the blame by
boffins these days as an easy scapegoat if they are struggling for an
answer come 1655 hours on a Friday afternoon and want to get down the
pub. I am no arachnologist but the explanation to my inexpert mind
is seemingly the increase in the numbers of spiders, which appears to
be in direct correlation to the decrease in wasps.
Spider
webs have been spreading like wildfire in the garden and one such web
on the kitchen window provided me with a breathtaking moment on
Wednesday. As I was washing up dishes and pots produced by an
unsatisfactory lunch of left over kippers on toast a wasp got caught
in the web and struggled, but failed, to free himself and a stout and
menacing spider speeded dexterously towards him across the ornate
web. I fumbled for my mobile telephone to take a photograph of this
astonishing natural phenomenon but the spider had woven imprisoning
silk shackles around the wasp in the blink of an eye and I was too
late. The spider made no haste in consuming his catch and by the
way he greedily munched away it looks like he had a more satisfactory
lunch than I did. The spider in question was a big old unit (even
before his meal) and judging by his contemporaries in my garden
obesity is as rife in the spider community as it is in their human
counterparts. Before we know it podgy spiders will be guiltily
nibbling on wasps' wings knowing that if they devour the whole
creature it will take them over their allocated daily Weight Watchers
points.
The
awesome sight of the spider ensnaring the wasp was only surpassed
this week by my absorbing study of Donny Darkeye's remarkable bar
skills in the Flagon & Gorses. A punter ordered a pint of
Stowford Press Cider and a pint of Weston's First Quality cider, the
former drink being nitro-keg which is dispensed by the click of a
switch and the latter being sucked up from its cask via a hand pull
pump. Darkeye clicked the Stowford switch and left the drink
pouring into the glass standing on top of the drip tray, proceeded
down the bar to pull the pint of Weston's and timed his return
perfectly just as the Stowford was nearing its pint mark. It was a
world class display and if bar stewardship was an Olympic sport
Darkeye would undoubtedly be in the medals.
 |
| A Codger Mansions spider at night |
Returning
to my creepy crawly friends. It appears that the bug community have
started to use Codger Mansions as a hospice where they can serenely
end their days. On Sunday a money spider who was crawling across
the living room floor simply ran out of puff, curled up and expired
there and then before he reached his intended destination. The
following day a geriatric wasp was impotently buzzing around the
kitchen and he landed on the work surface, seemingly to catch his
breath. I went to get a small glass and a coaster to trap him in so
as to liberate him back to the fresh air but moments later on my
return he had tragically passed away, alone and unloved. I
momentarily felt so sorry for the poor thing that I almost gave him a
burial and conducted a brief (non-religious) ceremony but the moment
passed and I lobbed him in the kitchen bin where he became entombed
in a discarded Danone Oykos peach yoghurt pot (which I had purchased
as a treat). Rest in peach dear wasp.
It
is a picture of a bee and not a wasp that dominates the logo of
Enville Ale and on my birthday recently I found myself in the
privileged position of having a gallon mini-cask of the beer as my
dear son Kenteke bought it for me as a gift. Little did I know that
the imbibing of the drink would have a sting in its tale but more of
that later.
The
beer had to be drunk within two weeks of purchase and within two days
of it being opened so the pressure was on to sup it and to empty the
cask but I didn't want to sit in Codger Mansions and drink it on my
lonesome, as that would be sad behaviour even by my lowly standards.
The only occupants of Codger Mansions other than the insects are my
dear son Kenteke, Alfie the teddy bear and the Phantasm that haunts
by nightmares. Kenteke is obvious ruled out of beer drinking being
a minor, Alfie claims to be a strict abstainer (though I do suspect
him of nipping at my single malt at times when I am out) and the
phantasm only likes spirits of course.
I
decided to ask Hugh Queensbury if he wanted to imbibe the Enville Ale
with me as he and his lovely wife Natasha often invite me to dinner
through the kindness of their hearts. A man of course needs no
second invitation to such an offer so the date of last Monday was set
to quaff the ale and eat the lunch that the gifted culinarian
Queensbury was to knock up.
 |
The
mysterious spide-louse.
|
As
I had lunch planned on Tuesday with an old friend (who was visiting the Midlands for the day) I was conscious that I needed to
take things easy alcohol-wise on Monday but I figured that a few
afternoon pints with Hugh would not do too much harm. As it was
the Enville ale seemed to wash down Hugh's delicious steak sandwiches
all too quickly leaving Queensbury and I with time on our hands and
many Bob Dylan records to listen to. Being the genial host that he
is Queensbury bought out a couple of bottles of Batham's bitter and
normal service was resumed. If you stick to beer, I thought, you
can't go far wrong. The Batham's of course didn't last long and as
we were discussing the books of Ian Fleming Hugh asked me if I wanted
a cocktail called a vespa, which I learnt is one of James Bond's
favourite tipples, and given that I had never tried one I gladly
agreed. The vespas somewhat upped the ante as the drink consists of
gin, vodka and Kina Lillet but dangerously they taste quite light and
not too strong.
The
vespas saw us through to tea time and started to work their magic but
I remember thinking to myself at that point that I wasn't too
tiddled, it was still early and I would be in tip top condition come
lunchtime the following day after I have a good night's sleep.
Things got a little hazy after that but I did feign to take my leave
only for Hugh and Natasha, who had returned from work, insisting I
stay for dinner. We had drinks, dinner, more drinks, music, drinks,
chatter, drinks and I read young Ellie a string of bedtime stories
which much have all sounded all the same to her on account of them
being read by a stewed and slurring man. More drinks followed and
eventually Natasha went to bed, so I gathered it must be getting late
but by then the gloves were off, the drinks were still flowing and
Queensbury and I were full of bonhomie and good cheer. Cut to many
hours later and I was roused from my sleep on the sofa by Hugh, who
for some inexplicable reason was not sporting any trousers. I
stumbled the two miles home zombie-like in the dead of the night and
entered into the oblivion of sleep.
Tuesday
morning brought with it a most unwelcome hangover which bordered on
fatal. I'll be fine by lunchtime I thought, a stout breakfast and
strong coffee will see me through and the lunch will go fine. I
couldn't have been more wrong. I decided that cancelling the lunch
would be a cowardly act so I gritted my teeth and ploughed on with
it. In light of a couple of sudden disappearances to the gents and
my profuse sweating I quickly came clean and disclosed the reason for
my state to my friend. Fortunately she saw the funny side and she
displayed a Mother Teresa level of humanity towards me, which I was
eternally grateful for. I should have known that an innocent gallon
of Enville Ale would have a nasty sting in the tail.
©
Dominic Horton, September 2014.
*
EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.
*
Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
.
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