By
Dominic Horton
It’s
rumoured that the coronavirus outbreak started after a Chinese man ate a bat. Of the flying mammal variety that is, not a
sporting implement made of willow. I bet
most of the world would like to get their hands on the fellow. But I have no animosity towards him. We’ve
all been there, famished and in the throes of desperation, late at night after
a gallon has gone down in the pub, rummaging around the kitchen trying to find
something suitable to eat. The wife of my associate Lal found him in
such as position once, eating microwave melted margarine out of the tub, as if
it were a soup.
Before
the days of a plethora of easy to access takeaways, and even microwaves, the organised
person might have purchased a boil in the bag Vesta curry. Which would sit in anticipation of its owner’s
return home, like a faithful dog, or a blow-up doll. There was always a frisson of danger and excitement
with Vesta curries. The combination of a
drunk man and boiling water means the danger element needs no explanation. And
the excitement was provided as you could have a game of hunt the meat.
People
used to have different tactics to address the post-pub food quandary. Davie B used to empty the contents of the
freezer, de-frost it in the microwave then mash it together and fry it. He called it bubble and squeak. Which is exactly
the sounds that were produced when it came out of the other end in the
morning.
When
I lived with Davie B’s counterpart, Big Dave, his preferred method was to cook
us a fishfinger curry. It was an uncomplicated
affair involving fried fishfingers covered with a tin of curry sauce,
accompanied with under or over cooked rice.
At a squeeze, our meagre frying pan could hold 9 budget fish fingers -
which contained more fingers than fish – so we had a dilemma, with 9 being an
odd number and there being two of us. To begin with we used to have 4 ½ fishfingers
each. But one night Dave suggested one
of us have 5 and the other 4, with the roles reversed next time. Of course, the only issue with this was that
next time neither of us could remember who had 5 and who had 4 the time before,
so predictable petty squabbles followed.
It
wasn’t the only time the drink influenced the recall powers of Dave and I. Our beloved Aston Villa had the temerity to
reach the League Cup final, so we had to channel our energies and finances to
get to Wembley. After a quick and decisive committee meeting,
we came to a swift and simple solution to save the cash we needed – we would stay
in on a Friday night.
For
two young bachelors, who were desperate to get to the pub at the end of the
working week, this was a Captain Oakes sized sacrifice. But it
didn’t turn out to be too bad, as the television programming on a Friday evening
then was pretty good, with such gems as Three Irish Priests and a Tea Lady
and I am Going to Take the P*ss out of Politicians for You. All washed down with lashings of
competitively priced premium lager and budget dry sherry. The sherry is a story for another time.
The
plan worked swimmingly, and we managed to save the required fold to finance our
Wembley sojourn. Sensibly, when we left
for the pub one night, we took the wad with us as we didn’t want a burglar to
think it was Christmas. In another
shrewd move, when we stumbled in from the pub, we decided to hide the cash to
keep it safe from unsavoury fingers, before retiring to our quarters to dream
of the Twin Towers and glory. The only
issue being come match day we couldn’t remember where we’d hidden the money.
Our
ensuing panic-stricken search was more thorough and diligent than King Arthur’s
search for the Holy Grail. And like
Arthur’s search, our hunt frustratingly bore no fruit. We had given up hope and we were having
frantic discussions about who we could ponce the necessary money off, when I absentmindedly
leant against a dusty, unloved and rather drab painting that hung over the fireplace. And to
our eternal surprise and utter relief, down dropped the wad of cash. Bingo.
Villa
beat Leeds United 3-0 in the final and a jolly good time was had by all. But of course, at the moment none of us have
the benefit of watching live football, unless you are Belarusian. The lack of football is the least of people’s
worries, as we are stowing ourselves away in our dwellings, hoping that this
situation will resolve itself quickly.
Kind
and concerned family, friends and associates have been asking me how I’m coping
with the hermit life, saying it must be awfully tough living alone in isolation. But generally,
it isn’t tough at all. Afterall, at
heart I’m a bit of a loner and introvert.
And I count my blessings that I
can still see my dear son Kenny, I can work from home and I’m comfortable in my
own company in my modest but cosy Codger Mansions bolt hole.
To
begin with, like most other people I would imagine, I soaked up the coronavirus
news, avidly watching, listening to and reading the latest developments in
great detail. I pretty quickly realised
that this wasn’t doing me much good and was increasingly my anxiety levels, which
are usually high at the best of times. So, I heeded Sir Matt Busby’s advice.
It’s
well documented that when Sir Alex Ferguson began his management of Manchester
United things didn’t go swimmingly. So, predictably
the commentary in the press was less than favourable. Fergie
told Sir Matt that he was agitated about the things he was reading about
himself and his team in the press. Sir
Matt’s advice to Ferguson was simple – don’t read the papers. And
that’s exactly what I’ve done, I’ve disconnected myself from the media and
resultantly my anxieties about the current crisis have decreased.
Us
regular inmates at the Waggon & Horses are used to isolating ourselves away
from the real world – that’s pretty much the whole point of pub life. The pub temporarily insulates you from the
less desirable aspects of existence, which wait menacingly for you outside the
door at closing time. Sure, people tell
you the news, but rarely will the national news be discussed in any depth
beyond the headlines. The news will more
likely be things like Swanky’s bar in the town has closed down or Neddy La Chouffe’s
kitchen floor has fallen in because of flooding, so he’s having to cook his tea
in his wellies. But I won’t
bore you with any more on all that, as I’ve written about it many times in this
column before.
But
suffice to say, there’s not been any pub-going in recent weeks, and there’s
unlikely to be any for a while yet either. I’ve walked forlornly past the Waggon a few
times and looked in at the haunting, silent interior of the bar, hand pulls devoid
of clips. And I’ve wondered when I’ll be able to recalibrate my work/ pub
balance again to healthier levels.
I’ve
recently experienced virtual pubs. But
the problem with them is every time I ‘attend’ them I get virtually
p*ssed. I don’t know why, but I always
drink quicker than when I go to an actual pub.
Maybe it’s the stress of getting to grips with the technology. More likely it’s to get over the horror of
having to look straight at the faces of your fellow virtual pub attendees. In an actual pub you usually don’t have to do
that, especially if you are sitting on a settle, side-on to a fellow inmate. And there’s an infinite number of things to
distract the eye in an actual pub, to divert you from the grotesque faces of
your associates. To make the virtual pub
experience more unsettling the picture of someone’s face broadcast via their
mobile phone makes it look like they are in a hall of mirrors in
Blackpool. Luckily as you aren’t actually in their
presence, they can’t kiss you quick.
But
things could be a whole lot worse.
Imagine having to experience extended periods at home in the 1970’s world
I grew up in, with only three television channels and no WiFi or other
technological distractions. So, I count
the blessings that I have. One of which
is that my beloved Aston Villa haven’t lost in weeks. Every
cloud, they say, has a silver lining.
© Dominic Horton, 2020.
*
Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the
late Jonathan Rendall
