Indecent
Proposal
By
Dominic Horton
Usually
the only loveless or unromantic wedding proposals are those for
arranged marriages or weddings of convenience. If the marriage
proposal that I made on Sunday evening had run its full course I
certainly would not have arranged the wedding and it would have been
highly inconvenient. And Neddy Lachouffe is far from being my ideal
life partner.
 |
| The author in Hamburg, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
I
only have the word of witnesses in the Flagon & Gorses that I
proposed to him on returning from Willy Mantitt's beer junket in
Hamburg on Sunday night, as before the flight home my person had been
inundated with beer and my retentiveness on that evening was
defective. I am just glad I didn't opt for the traditional approach
and get down on one knee to propose to Neddy as it is more than
likely I wouldn't have got up again.
I
know not why I proposed to Neddy but on entering the Flagon I
exuberantly declared, “Neddy I love you and I want to marry you.”
My guess is that Neddy received the full terrifying brunt of my
affections as he was the first person I saw when I walked through the
door of the pub and I was so utterly relieved that the hellishness of
the flight home was over and that I had returned to the cocooning
comfort of the Flagon & Gorses.
I
do remember talking briefly to Kinver Dave on Sunday evening and
being the attentive fellow that he is he quickly assessed that I was
a little tiddly. I reminded him that when I bumped into him at
Nottingham Beer Festival a few years ago and I apologised to him for
being a bit drunk that he advised me, “It's not a crime you know.”
Although I had committed no misdemeanors on Sunday it was criminal
that I had got myself into that condition and I knew I would be
temporarily on death row come the morning.
On
Monday the Pirate asked why I was so stewed the previous evening. I
explained to the Pirate that I had drank too many German beers, stein
after stein, to which he quick wittedly retorted, “Why, were you
drinking with Cyndi Lauper?” Even though girls just want to have
fun I don't think that Cyndi Lauper would have enjoyed the beer
junket to Hamburg as she might get three sheets to the wind and
disgrace herself by showing her true colours.
On
these weekend beer trips things always start out promising but
without fail they end in debacle. Or in de loo, or both, usually.
Well, they do for me at any rate. The night before we departed for
Hamburg I soberly remained in my Codger Mansions dwelling watching
the darts and I suppressed my holiday mood urge to pop up the Flagon
to tickle the tonsils with a couple. Not that I have any tonsils as
they were removed when I was a boy, even though it is not evident to
all medical practitioners.
 |
| The drinking party in Hamburg minus Willy Mantitt (who was either taking the photo or was in the karsi.) |
A
few years ago I had chronic ear ache on a weekend so I visited the
out of hours doctor who looked down my throat and quickly diagnosed
the ailment. “Ahh, yes, I can see exactly what the problem is Mr
Horton,” explained the doctor, “your tonsils are clearly
inflamed.” To the doctor's great embarrassment I replied, “I
doubt that Doc, I had them removed in 1979.”
When
I was in hospital in '79 I remember that The Buggles Video
Killed the Radio Star was number one in the charts, which
was an annoying song to say the least but not as annoying as the
behaviour of the nurses: when I was admitted I took with me a bag of
sweets and chocolates but a nurse found them and confiscated them
stating that I was not allowed to eat until after the operation. She
told me that she would put the bag of goodies in storage and return
them to me when I leave. When I was discharged I asked the nurse for
my sweets back (in a faint and croaky post-op voice) but she denied
ever having taken them, so I never got them back.
The glutinous and thieving nurses must have
scoffed my confectionery in the staff room chortling at my
boyish naivety in thinking that I was going to get them
back.
Anyway,
on Saturday morning I was in chipper condition for the 0730 hours
flight to Hamburg and I only had one solitary pint in the airport bar
in order to maintain a disciplined approach. Mind you, that was only
because they sold no real ale so I had to improvise with an
undelectable pint of Guinness. Boozing on the flight was a write off
as it was an Hobson's choice between overpriced small cans of Stella
Artois and Fuller's London Pride, so I had a bottle of water and
sweated it out. So even though we immediately proceeded to the
Hofbrauhaus beer hall on arrival in Hamburg and were drinking litre
steins of Lowenbrau at 1030 hours in the morning (and carried on in
that vein all day) come bedtime later in the evening I was not in too
bad a shape, not that I can remember. But my fair to middling
condition on Sunday morning told its own story.
 |
| The magnificent Hamburg Rathaus |
A
stout breakfast followed by a morning stroll around the streets of
Hamburg with Toby In-Tents further improved my physical well-being.
I say “stroll” but In-Tents walks like he plays
football, aggressively, so it turned into a bit of a work
out. The whole of Hamburg seems to be shut on a Sunday morning, save
the odd café, but we did get to see the magnificent Hamburg Rathaus
(town hall) and we went in the church of Sankt Jacobi, where a
service was being held, but I had the booze terrors in there and was
soon keen to get out for fear of the priest condemning me to the
depths of burning hell, or even worse, trying to convert me to
christianity.
At
lunchtime In-Tents and I joined the rest of the party (who had by now
risen from their graves) in the beer hall and I remember smugly
congratulating myself for having cheated the grim reaper of hangovers
for a change. That turned out to be my downfall. The beers slipped
down quicker than oysters at the Henley Regatta. Consequently I
declined faster than the Wall Street stock market in 1929. The next
thing I recall is drinking Old Feckah's scrumpy cider in the Flagon &
Gorses public bar, starring glassy-eyed at Neddy Lachouffe, neither
of which was a good idea.
It
doesn't take Inspector Clouseau to work out that this week has been
somewhat of a challenge as the older one gets the more testing it is
to recover one's full physical and mental health after a heavy
weekend of relaxing. Monday was pretty much a write off where all
requests were greeted by me with, “Not now Cato.” But Tuesday it
was back to business as normal as first thing I had an appointment at
the doctor's for a 'flu jab followed by attending the shared reading
group. Before injecting me the nurse asked me, “have you had the
'flu recently? Hot and cold flushes? Headache? Lack of energy?” I
didn't have the heart to tell her that I had endured a sleepless and
fearful night suffering from those very symptoms but not due to
influenza but to alcohol withdrawal.
On
retreating back to Codger Mansions from the doc's I tried to perk
myself up with a cup of coffee. But the drink tasted a bit harsh and
made me feel a little bilious and a flashback to Hamburg on Sunday
made me realise that was because someone had given me a strong coffee
before the flight to sober me up. I have never really understood
the rationale behind that tactic: "he's been drinking heavily
for two days solid but give him a cup of Nescafe and he'll be as
right as rain in a minute." It's like saying, “yes, I
know he's trying to kick a crack cocaine habit, brew him up a nice
cup of tea and once he's had that he'll be over the worst of it.”
So
next week things can only get better (which of course was used by the
Labour party as their anthem during their successful 1997 election
campaign) and the slogan has never been more fitting as UKIP have
gained another parliamentary seat after their candidate Mark Reckless
won the Rochester and Strood by-election. I for one am voting with my
feet; I'm off up the Flagon & Gorses for a pint of the Pirate's
finest.
©
Dominic Horton, November 2014.
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
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