The Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward and other
Stories
There was no
sleep to be had last night, intermittent snoozing at most but no real
sleep. This is often the case on the
first sober night after a few days of drinking.
I was caught out by an impromptu night out on Tuesday to see the Magic
Band (i.e. Captain Beefheart’s band) with Fudgkins, the Pirate and the
Frymaster General.
The Magic Band were magnificent.
The Frymaster General was chuffed he made a mad dash from the Potteries to make it.
We went in the White Rose in Bilston for a swifty pre-gig and the
Frymaster was in there with his kit bag, having booked a room. He was wearing a black shirt with small white
horses on it. Hideous. Fudgkins is the only man in Britain Black Country at heart.
The beer sweats
took hold last night as soon as I got into bed and despite trying to relax with
reading I could not calm down sufficiently to get to sleep. The only drink that I had on the evening was
a small Scotch with the intention that it would keep the wolf from the door,
but the wolf proceeded to rampage in uncompromising fashion through my sickly
dreams and thoughts anyway. I drank the
cheap Aldi Scotch from a Les Vegas shot glass that I had from the Phantom and
the irony of this was not lost on me.
Even my teddy
bear Alfie seemed to be struggling a bit with the terror and it doesn’t unduly
surprise me as I have long suspected that he nips at my spirits when I am out,
which is why they disappear so quickly.
I would have never pictured myself having a teddy but the Cannonball
bought me one as a gift and Alfie has turned out to be one of the most valuable
presents that I have ever had – I would recommend any single person buying one
as the comfort they offer is immeasurable.
I explained this to the Adbul up the Flagon, but he did not seem too
taken with the idea. That said he might
have since acquired a teddy but kept it quiet from me in order to keep his
masculine sensibility in tact. Alfie
always offers me great warmth and reassurance, especially on dark nights of the
soul as described above.
This little
spell of drinking more than average needs to be put to bed and my normal
routines resumed. The spell started
after hearing of Jonathan Rendall’s death a few weeks ago and now it needs to
stop. Occasionally there is an online
survey on drinking where they ask such questions as “do you drink alone” or
“have you ever missed a day off work through drinking.” Usually the idea is
that if you answer yes to 50% of the questions then you are (in their eyes) a
problem drinker. The annoying thing is
that there is never a simple click you can make to answer yes to all of the
questions without having to go through them individually. It is enough to drive you to drink.
Whilst having a
course of counselling a few years ago I raised the issue of alcohol and told
the counsellor that I wanted to discuss it, saying that I was concerned about
the amount I drink. The counsellor asked
me how much and when I drink and then asked me to compare that with my friends’
alcohol habits. When I told her that on
average I consume the same amount of booze as my friends and usually have at
least three dry days a week she was adamant that I have nothing to anguish
about and that I should not worry. I
suspect that the counsellor enjoyed a little drop herself and that she saw my
drinking as tame. In fact by the time I
left the session she had made me feel as though I was not drinking enough and
that I should try harder. Consequently
my drinking habits were not moderated.
On I turning 40
a couple of years ago I received a letter from my local GP inviting me for a
routine medical. I took up the offer and
underwent several tests and answered a multitude of questions about my
lifestyle. I decided to answer the
questions as honestly as I could in order to get the best advice from the
doctor. The doc was impressed with my
diet and my exercise regime but was a little surprised by my answers to
questions on alcohol. At the end of the
examination all the relevant info was fed into a computer which calculated that
I had a 1% chance of having a heart attack or stroke at the current time. As the computer does not give out a score of
0% the GP explained that I scored as well as I possibly could have done. However, the doc then proceeded to warn me
that I drink too much and that I really need to cut down. I protested that as I had an estimated 1%
chance of having a heart attack or stroke I could not possibly do any better so
why should I change my habits? As far as
I was concerned the 1% score gave me complete carte blanche to drink what I damn
well wanted to, so in my case the check up probably had the opposite effect
that it intended.
Following
Jonathan Rendall’s death I was delighted to see that More 4 repeated his
excellent documentary The Gambler,
where Channel 4 gave him £12,000 to gamble away as he sees fit. On the face of it the footage where he
gambles £1,000 at the Cheltenham Gold Cup (he loses) portrays the agonies and
anxieties that a gambler goes through during a horse race. But watching the sequence anew after the 8
odd years since it was first broadcast, it’s clear to me that what Rendall is
going through during the race is actually post alcohol terror. It is very painful and difficult to watch,
given my empathy with Rendall’s predicament at that moment. I imagine that Rendall was nervous about the
filming and had a decent drink the night before and was suffering the
horror-filled consequences during the race.
It is noticeable that he excuses himself immediately after the race and
goes for a drink, which most will think is needed to calm him from the
excitement and disappointment of the race, but in reality is more likely needed
to chase away the drink demons.
As part of my
fruitless search to try to get hold of a copy of the manuscript of Rendall’s
unpublished book about Mike Tyson, Scream,
I found myself writing to a one Luke Stacey of Hampshire. A Luke Stacey of that county had written a
review of the book on Amazon but there were no details for him. I found the Mr Stacey that I wrote to after
research on the internet but sadly it transpired not to be the same Mr S. In his correspondence back to me Stacey said
that my politeness and courtesy will take me far in life. If only he knew.
Boozers can
normally sniff out other boozers at a 100 paces, and so it came to pass the
morning after the wedding of my associate Willy Mantitt in Gloucester
After a stout
English breakfast in the morning with Mr & Mrs Chompa Babbee I felt right
as rain and went to pay the digs bill. A
little queue had formed at the front desk, which was being manned by the
Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward, clearly the worse for wear as indicated by the
buttons on his shirt being done up in the wrong order. The HSBS was relieved to
get rid of an old well-to-do couple, who had made a great fuss about paying
their bill. Once I headed the queue he
excused himself and returned from the bar with a clear fizzy drink, which he
guzzled down in no uncertain fashion before explaining, “gin and tonic, I
needed that.” I doubt that given his
extreme state the night before that he could have remembered me, so the
Horizontal Scottish Bar Steward must have simply surmised that I am a
boozer. And reluctantly I have to admit
that he is right.
© Dominic Horton, 7th March,
2013.
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