Lowlife 99 – Time Flies When you are Having Rum

Time Flies When you are Having Rum

By Dominic Horton

On Black Friday I wasn't much interested in having a punch up with someone over a discount 50” flat screen plasma television at Merry Hell, so I opted for retreating from the freneticism of shopping by going to the far more pleasant Dudley Winter Ales Fayre with Harry Stottle and the Coarse Whisperer. The Pirate was absent without leave and the Whisperer told me that the Pirate had hatched a cunning escape plan from his landlordly duties at the Flagon & Gorses to go and see Peter Gabriel, but due to the chattering throng of drinkers at the Fayre I misheard this as, “he's gone to see Peter and Gabriel.” For a second I thought that the Pirate had finally turned up his toes and journeyed to Heaven.

Chilli Willy (with Neddy Lachouffe

appearing to be growing as a large boil out

of Willy's neck).

Talking of the Pirate's toes, he has recently been wearing carpet slippers whilst he sits in the bar at the Flagon, which is a worrying development. We have all heard drinkers in pubs say, “I'm getting comfy” (meaning they are getting settled into a long drinking session) but taking this a step further and wearing carpet slippers is a bridge too far. What next? Will the Pirate appear in the public bar wearing his dressing gown, like an ignoble Hugh Heffner? But like the Pirate said, it's his house and he can do what he pleases, which is fair enough.

Whether the Pirate is wearing his unstylish carpet slippers or otherwise, when he does arrive at Heaven (which hopefully won't be until after the Flagon Christmas party on Monday) St Peter will most likely send him packing and guide him down the escalators to the place where it's bonfire night all the time. The Pirate probably won't want to step into Heaven anyway, unless they have got Oakham Green Devil IPA on draft (6% ABV), then he might be persuaded. But a beer of that name is unlikely to find it's way into the celestial cellar of the Dead Lion in Heaven.

There would be a good chance of the Pirate being turned away from Hell of the Damned as well as the Devil and his fellow committee members would be concerned about him drinking all the grog and about his perpetual flatulence, which would pose a health and safety issue with all the naked flames around. So more than likely the Pirate would end up in Limbo. As he likes a gag I can just picture the Pirate trying to dance under a low metal pole, wearing an Hawaiian shirt, to Caribbean steel drum music whilst the Limbo Steward declares, “you can p*ss off out of here you fool - we are not that type of limbo.”

St Peter with the keys to Heaven.

Not fancying his only other option of Purgatory the Pirate would doubtless return to Earth as a Zombie but he would quickly get fed up of being turned away from the Flagon & Gorses and he would slip into post-fatal depression. And it would be a grim state to be in as he would not even be able to do himself in on account of him already being brown bread. Businesses are always looking for new ways to expand and attract customers, so with any luck the Gravitas clinic in Switzerland would develop a service to reverse their normal procedure to satisfy punters who have used the clinic but are in hindsight disgruntled about the outcome.

After having a whip round in the Flagon we'd send the Pirate off to Switzerland to be restored to the land of the living (or the Flagon & Gorses equivalent, which shouldn't be as expensive) so he could once more sit in the comfort of the Public Bar. In his tawdry slippers. The Pirate told me on Sunday that the three main causes of pensioners having a fall are backless slippers, rugs and cats. So if a pensioner who is wearing backless slippers walks across a rug on which a cat is sleeping he's 99% guaranteed to hit the canvas. And if he's been out and had a few beforehand that figure will rise to 100%. So bear this in mind when you are deciding what Christmas presents to purchase for your elderly relatives. Only buy them backless slippers, a rug or a cat if you don't like them very much.

It did turn out to be a black Friday at any rate as I mostly drank stout at the Winter Ales Fayre, as I am partial to a drop of the black stuff, especially in the autumn and the winter. BBC Radio 5 Live informed me that Black Friday was to be followed by Cyber Monday, when shoppers are glued to their computers and similar devices, where they are quick to pick their Christmas shopping with a click. I decided that Cider Monday would be a better idea so I popped up the Flagon for a drop of the Old Feckah's scrumpy and I was summarily told off for being “late” by Dapper Tony, who demanded a note from my Mother. I hadn't arranged to meet Dapper Tony, or anyone else for that matter, but pub inmates are usually creatures of habit and Tony being a Monday night regular he had noticed the deviance of my routine.

The Angel Gabriel (who must

have been on the Red Bull again).

My routine deviated on Wednesday as well as I don't as a rule nip up the Flagon on that night, but I am glad that I did as Chilli Willy was adorning all rooms of the pub with fetching Christmas trimmings. There is something very cathartic about watching someone decorate a quiet pub whilst you are sitting there leisurely drinking. The trade for the night had died off and it left just yours truly, Jolly D, Frank Henstein and Richie Ramone to hold the fort, with Toe-Knee Tulips supplying refreshments to the troops from behind the bar. Admirably Jolly D has decided to persevere with his Movember moustache despite December now having crept upon us.

Those are always my favourite times in the Flagon, when it is later in the evening and the numbers have dwindled down to a few regular inmates who huddle together in the corner of the bar to quip, banter and put the world to rights. All seems at peace in those moments, with the world outside being at arms length until kicking-out time. Invariably those caught up in the bonhomie and the conducive atmosphere of such intimate gatherings are having such a good time that they usually have at least one more drink, even if they did not plan to do so.

The Pirate, by request of Toby In-Tents.

There is almost a haunting quality to the pub when only a few are in at night, it is not unsettling but an enchanting atmosphere. The odd car can be heard breaking the quietude of the Stourbridge Road and when an ambulances passes its flashing blue lights illuminate the mirrors at the back of the bar, rebounding the lights back across the room. We are temporarily unborn babes in the security of the womb, cocooned and protected from the dangers and threats of what lies outside.

When the place is nearly empty and someone laughs the laugh is amplified, it is clearer as it doesn't get lost like it would in the din of a busy pub, but it grows in value and enriches the few ears that hear it. Everyone chips into the chatter and it is a team game now, not an individual sport, all players are in good form inspiring each other to come out with quick witted lines and titillating whimsy. Funnily enough when Frank Henstein leaves the pub he usually says, “Goodnight team” and I've only just realised as I write this how fitting those words are.

As the handful of drinkers and the bar staff know each other a tranquil and affable mood permeates the gathering, there are no cliques and the conversation and jocular exchanges are no longer a personal preserve, they are in the ownership of the group. Guards are dropped, tongues loosened, funny bones tickled. It is life affirming and reinvigorating and the problems and difficulties that you had when you walked in the pub will still remain when you leave, but they seem less onerous, more manageable, solvable even.

The night crept on towards last orders. You could almost hear people thinking, “I know I shouldn't but sod it I'm going to have another one. Or two.” Jolly D and I decided to accompany our beer with a drop of Gosling's Black Seal to celebrate the beginning of Christmas in the Flagon but the decorating spectacular was soon over and it was time to head off home. You know what they say, time flies when you are having rum.  

© Dominic Horton, December 2014.

Email: lordhofr@gmail.com

Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall