A
Dart to the Heart
By
Dominic Horton
As
I occasionally dabble in a bit of satire in these pages it
has been a nervy week for everyone at the Lowlife headquarters
at Codger Mansions (i.e. Alfie the teddy bear and I) after the
shocking murders in Paris of staff of the weekly satirical news
magazine Charlie Hebdo. I doubt whether a little known humourist
writer from Halesowen is on the terrorists most wanted list but you
never know – it would send shockwaves around the West Midlands real
ale community if I was to be assassinated. Thinking about it I
am a humanist in addition to being a humourist, so that makes me a
humanist humourist. You often hear of humanist funerals these days
but never of humourist ones. If the terrorists do hunt me down
(which won't be too hard for them as they only need look in the
Flagon & Gorses, Codger Mansions, Villa Park or the Coombeswood
Sports & Social Club) and clip me then I desire a humourist
funeral. With Roddy Doyle as the master of ceremonies.
 |
| Alan Brazil in his Ipswich Town pomp. |
I
have put Barty Hook of the Lowlife London Office on high alert
as he is more at threat in the Smoke than I am in sleepy Halesowen
and sensibly he immediately retreated to the Lakeside Country Club in
Frimley Green to attend the World Professional Darts Championship, to
hide among the reveling throng. Even if the terrorists
sniff him out I doubt if they would ever have the heart to kill a
drunken man who is wearing a Kermit the Frog costume and holding a
sign reading, “Let's have darts in the Olympics.” Given Barty's
appearance at the arrows the assassins might try to
bump him off with a dart to the heart, a bullseye, at which Jim Bowen
would appear from the shadows and tell the successful hitman that he
has won a speedboat. The unsuccessful assassins will of
course just get the bus fair home, which might cost Bowen a few
quid given that they live in Paris.
I
have been listening to Talk Sport recently in preference to BBC Radio
5 Live as there was a proliferation of child abuse stories on the
latter station and I just can't face listening to them as they make
me sick to the stomach. So I have opted for Talk Sport, which like
following football or other sports is pure escapism, but even there I
could not get away from the dreadful Charlie Hebdo murders. But being
the consummate breakfast time sports broadcaster the
jovial and garrulous Alan Brazil quickly brushed over the matter by
saying that the murders are an awful business but life goes on,
before quickly moving on to a preview of the weekend's football
fixtures. Brazil didn't even ask the opinion of his sidekick Micky
Quinn, in the way that he did when Iraq was invaded in 2003, which
lead to the farcical situation of Quinn proffering his
views on world politics.
I'll
never forgive Quinn for exercising his weapons of mass destruction on
Boxing Day, 1992, when he scored two goals in a 3-0 Coventry City win
against my beloved Aston Villa at Highfield Road, which I attended.
It brought an expeditious end to festivities that year and as last
week's edition of this column suggested I have never quite recovered.
 |
| Angel Ales' Bob 60, brewed for the Pirate's 60th birthday four years ago. |
The
hurtful memory of Quinn's goals made me hastily re-tune my
radio to BBC Radio 5 Live where the reporter stated that despite the
Charlie Hebdo killings Paris seemed to be relatively normal with
tourists taking pictures of themselves with selfie sticks. I had no
idea what a selfie stick was so I had to research the matter. The
only stick I possess is a turd stick, which I use to unblock the
toilet if there is a log jam.
I
have always stocked a turd stick since an incident at one of my
previous dwellings, No 2 Fairfield Drive, many years ago. A
particularly hearty and firm log had blocked the toilet and it
refused to disappear down the U-bend after several flushes. I can't
remember who the owner of the stool was but I have a feeling that it
might have been my then housemate Still-in-Fjord, who had form in
such matters. It just so happened that my dear departed friend Alfie
C was in the house and on hearing the commotion upstairs
he inquired as to what the problem was, so I explained
the situation to him. “Haven't you got a turd stick?” Alfie
asked. “No,” I replied.
Alfie
was perplexed as he thought that everyone possessed a turd stick in
the same way as owning a kettle. Undeterred Alfie descended the
stairs and rummaged around the garage and returned to the toilet with
my cricket bat in his hand, declaring, “this will do”. I of
course protested that I didn't want my cricket bat shoved down the
karsi but I was eventually persuaded that it was the lesser of two
evils as the log needed to be shifted to render the
toilet usable once more.
Alfie
shoved the handle of the cricket bat down the loo and after poking
around for a while he flushed the chain and announced that
the turd was gone and on it's way to the sewerage works. The news was
greeted with more glee and relief than was shown by the princess when
St George slain the dragon. For his efforts with the cricket bat we
awarded Alfie six runs and it must have been the only time that a
person has been delighted by getting runs in the lavatory. Although
most households probably have a turd stick they will always be an
improvised affair as to my knowledge you cannot buy such a product in
the shops. As such there is a clear gap in the market that needs to
be exploited, I'll have a think on that. “This time next year
Rodney we'll be millionaires” etc.
 |
| Jim Bowen, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
I
have had less cause to visit the toilet this week for number twos as
I have had a booze free week, not having imbibed since last Sunday.
Not that I am having a puritanical dry January, not at all, I had my
first drink of the New Year at lunchtime on New Year's Day and I have
no intention whatsoever of denying myself the pleasures of drinking
during the course of the month. It has become somewhat of an annual
ritual for me to denounce the practice of having a dry January in
these pages so please remember that during January, probably more
than any other time of the year, your pub landlord needs you.
Talking of landlords it is the Pirate's birthday on Sunday, which is
another reason why a boozeless January doesn't work for me,
especially as my friends at Angel Ales always brew an outstanding
stout for the occasion.
It
is amazing just how much you can get done when you are liberated from
booze; it is just a shame I didn't realise this when I worked for
Barclays, I would be the CEO by now. Not that I aspired to fill such
a position, on the contrary, as I thankfully got out of the bank
while the going was bad and being a highly paid executive is not
really my bag. This week marked the occasion of ‘Fatcat Tuesday’
the day on which, according to the High Pay Centre, the amount of
money earned by the average FTSE 100 CEO this year to date surpasses
the amount that the average worker can expect to earn all year. I
would wager that given their wealth most FTSE 100 CEOs have custom
made, gold gilded turd sticks, designed to their exact
specifications.
 |
| The humourist writer Roddy Doyle. |
I
have decorated two rooms at Codger Mansions this week as well as
completing a whole host of fiddly tasks that have
been outstanding for an age. I use the word “decorating”
very loosely as it is not exactly my forte. I made the mistake of
buying a pot of emulsion from B&Q that was half price - it ran
out before I had finishing painting the living room and a return trip
to the store revealed that it was sold at a discount as it was the
last one. I had to buy another paint that was a rough match of the
original colour to finish the job off. Luckily, I think I have got
away with it and the room doesn't look too bad, mainly on account of
the small windows in Codger Mansions that only let in a small amount
of daylight, rendering the rooms murky even on the brightest of
winter days.
Illuminating
summer sunshine might reveal the discrepancy in the two shades of
colour but I'll cross that bridge if and when I come to it. The
advice of the sage-like Australian psychologist and author Dorothy
Rowe is to live in the present and to not fret about the future and
such guidance is good enough for me, especially when I am having a
drink in the Flagon & Gorses. And given my sobriety, stresses
and endeavours this week, it is most definitely, without question,
time for a pint of the Pirate's finest.
©
Dominic Horton, January 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
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