Lowlife No 19 - Funicular Frolics

Lowlife No 19

Funicular Frolics

On walking through the Jewellery Quarter district of Birmingham in Willy Mantitt’s coat on the way to work on a fine, sunny morning on Thursday I was pondering that I appear to have given the impression in this column that I am somewhat of a charity case. Having the most wonderful friends and associates (and a few dodgy ones) they have duly responded to the sorry impression that I have given of myself and recently Mantitt kindly donated me the aforementioned coat, Tom Holliday has generously offered me a vacuum cleaner (see Lowlife 16) and I have had magnanimous offers from two other cohorts of undoubted character to lend me money and pay for a taxi, respectively.

This benevolence from my dear, caring friends is truly humbling. I unburdened Mantitt of the coat on the basis that he didn’t care much for it anyway and wanted it out of his life, and I will graciously accept Holliday’s gift as he wouldn’t part with the chattel unless he intended me to have it, him being no sucker, which is ironic considering he’s giving me a vacuum cleaner.

However, I draw the line at poncing money and taxis off valued associates, although I am eternally grateful for their flattering, heartfelt offers. My late Grandad Charlie, who for good reason I idolised, advised me “neither a borrower or a lender be”, and I have always stood by this wise maxim other than having the obligatory and essential overdraft. I have none of what now appear to be essentials of modern living, such as a dish washer, a tumble drier, a 40” plasma television or the latest, swish mobile phone. But neither am I saddled with debt. I do have a (second hand) George Foreman grill and a portable radio in the bathroom (which sadly does not have long wave to receive broadcasts of Test Match Special) and both things seem pretty lavish to me.     

I have recently acquired a lap top computer at the bargain price of £149, for the purposes of writing this column, so I have now limped lamely into the 21st Century, unannounced. Toby-in-Tents cemented my charitable status by considerately donating a computer keyboard, mouse and monitor to me and if I can muster up enough capital to purchase a computer desk I will actually be able to use them.

     
I was donning Mantitt's coat on Thursday as the weather persons at the BBC had assured me that I would be accompanied by rain but nothing could be further from the truth. Admittedly, generally the weather persons at the BBC seem to get the forecast somewhere near correct but they seem to conveniently forget the “forecast” part and sell the weather as a non-negotiable done deal, which of course it is not. The weather forecast is an educated guess but the forecasters seem to use the word “will” more than a provincial solicitor dealing with the bereaved, e.g. “rain will spread in over the Midlands later this afternoon.” I would prefer it if the forecasters remembered their lot and did not make themselves out to be god (not that I am the slightest bit religious of course) by reconsidering their delivery to something like, “my forecast is that rain will spread in over the Midlands sometime this afternoon.”

Talking of the weather an ill wind bloweth at the moment as I have effectively been suffering from the ghastly booze terrors for two days after spending an enjoyable but heavy weekend in Bridgnorth, Shropshire with Still-in-Fjord, Dustin Scoffman and Gusty Monsoon, staying at Still-in-Fjord's quaint new holiday home in the town. The weekend was planned to see off Scoffman to the Antipodes where he is jetting off to start a new life with his wife, the lovely Mrs Scoffman.   I am not sure what crime Scoffman has committed to justify transportation but judging by his attire on the weekend my guess is a crime against fashion.

When I turned up on Friday to meet the three reprobates I thought we were going to a teddy boy convention as both Dustin and Gusty were sporting quiffs.  Luckily, they had both forgotten to pack their flick knives and knuckle dusters.

On Friday evening, after surveying Still-in-Fjord’s wonderful new property we had a couple of pints before taking the obligatory trip on the town’s historic funicular cliff railway, then tried a few more beers.   The proceedings turned sinister when on return to Still-in-Fjord’s house Monsoon had an impromptu out of body experience and Still-in-Fjord was so concerned about his sanity that he opted to sleep in the same room as Gusty; while all of this was going on I was apparently sleeping in the same room, eating a family sized bag of Doritos crisps whilst snoring – photographic evidence of this was produced to me in the morning.  I was told the following day that I woke in the middle of the night in the small room crammed with me, Monsoon and Still-in-Fjord and made mutterings about it being like a slave ship before doing a lady wee in the ensuite bathroom in Scoffman’s room.

On the way to breakfast on Saturday morning we discussed the mottos of towns and cities and I explained that the English interpretation of Halesowen’s Latin motto is “Look to the past, the present and the future” before Still-in-Fjord illuminated us with the information that Wolverhampton’s motto in anglicised form is, “Out of the darkness cometh light.”  At that moment out of the Tesco cameth Gusty, carrying paracetamol for his hangover. 

After a stout English breakfast it was off to the Severn Valley Railway, which we used as a diversionary tactic to keep us out of the pub for a while.  Two charming Salopian travelling companions, who work on the railway as volunteers, kept us entertained all the way to Kidderminster and kept our minds off beer, which was no mean feat.  The delightful King & Castle pub at Kidderminster station saw our first pint of the day and thereon in we navigated our way to public houses at virtually every station on the return journey.  We were under time pressure to quaff pints as we had a train timetable to stick to and consequently we had more to drink than if we had sat in the pub relaxing all afternoon but we all had a jolly good time in the process.

Last night, being the first back in my own bed after the weekend excursion, saw the cold sweats and post-drinking horrors and usually in these circumstances the devil himself shows up to orchestrate proceedings. But things got so bad in the night at one stage that when my satanic friend popped his head around the bedroom door he clearly realised the gravity of my state and he sped off back into the night, clearly not wanting to get involved with the situation with it being atrocious even by his standards.  Due to a persistent nagging headache behind the eyes at about 0300 hours I decided to take a couple of paracetamol, but my kidneys, which seemed to be suffering their own private hell, were not too pleased about this and were one step away from fleeing to attend a meeting of Kidneys of Drinkers Anonymous.  Only after heavy negotiations did I convince the kidneys otherwise. 

When I awoke at 0630 hrs after a turbulent 90 minutes of fitful sleep (and I didn't even change ends at half time) the early morning world outside seemed to be coming alive, which was ironic as I felt half dead. I had not felt booze terrors as bad since returning from Willy Mantitt’s gleeful stag junket in Munich a few years ago. On that occasion it was only the diligent attentions of Toby-in-Tents that got me back from Bavaria, but that trip back to Blighty was not without mishap.  However, that dear reader, is a story for another day.

 

© Dominic Horton, 21^st May, 2013.