Last of the Summer Insobriety
You will most probably not believe me (and I could
hardly blame you) but I only had a total of three pints last Sunday as in my
new regime I set myself a limit of eight half pints but I only felt the need
for six halves before I headed off from the Flagon & Gorses into the
night. I felt a bit cheated on Monday
morning though, as despite eating before and after the pub and drinking plenty
of water I had a faint headache (which ironically is not something that I
normally get if I drink a great volume of beer [unless I add cider into the
mix]) but it transpired to be a product of an oncoming cold, which I have most
likely procured second hand from Toby In-Tents.
Additionally, on Saturday night
after drinking five pints of beer at Hugh Queensbury’s 40th birthday
party I entered previously uncharted waters by having a pint of coke (bold
italics intentional for emphasis) and it was a free bar to boot. I did follow the coke with three VATS (small
may I add), so all in all it was a night of unprecedented reserved moderation,
which I was pleased about. It was a
rare pleasure for me to see Barty Hook, Gusty Monsoon and Hugh Queensbury in a
more intoxicated state than me and long may it continue. On leaving the party
at the Duke William in Strourbridge at 0130 hours Barty insisted we repair to
the River Rooms, being the local night spot, despite there only being half an
hour until close of play. Fortunately
for me the doorman refused us entry so I was able to retreat back to Codger
Mansions for an economy brand fish finger sandwich (“easy on the tartar sauce
please Jeeves”) and a bit of Match of the
Day (which I had recorded) before
bed. Maybe if Barty had
taken the gentlemanly measure of removing his flat cap the doorman would have
allowed us entry, in which case I was grateful that he kept the offending hat
firmly lodged on his glabrous head.
I sincerely hope that feelings of crapulence are
well and truly condemned to the past. I
realise though that I must not become complacent as the next unfettered p*ss up
could only be round the corner so I need to be on my guard, especially given
the liberal drinking habits of most of my cohorts and associates.
Despite the relative sobriety over the weekend I
was disappointed to find on Monday night that I had the reoccurring nightmare
that I customarily have on the first completely sober night of the week. Maybe the nightmare is not linked directly to
booze consumption (or lack thereof) but is the Archfiend’s way of reminding me
that he is always lurking ominously in the shadows of my existence.
At Queensbury’s party a friend told me that he is
having a difficult time in life and as he does not have my telephone number I
offered it to him on the back of a beer mat (in time honoured tradition) and
encouraged him to contact me if he needed help or a friendly ear. I later found the beer mat sitting dolefully
abandoned on the bar in a pool of beer.
So much for Horton’s counselling services. The friend obviously estimated that talking
to me for half an hour would make his condition markedly worse and he is most
probably right.
After the Comet voucher disaster last year (such voucher
being rendered useless after the business in question had the indecency to go
into liquidation before I had redeemed it) I am keen to cash in all vouchers
that are gifted to me soon after receipt, so after the tight chino debacle (see
Lowlife 36) it was back down Next
this week to find a suitable clothing item.
A rather attractive cardigan (or so I thought at the time) caught my eye
so I bought it and I didn’t even need to try it on as the size guide informed
me that medium size equates to a 39” to 41” chest and with me being a 40” it
should have fitted perfectly.
On return to Codger Mansions in the evening I tried the
cardigan on but to my dismay I found it to be woefully small and to compound
matters it made me look like a pensioner; I did not notice the patches on the
elbows of the garment in the shop, though the free packet of Fisherman’s
Friends with every purchase should have given the game away. In my mind’s eye I can clearly see my late
Grandad Tommy sitting in his easy chair, studiously tending to his pipe in a
similar cardigan to the one in question.
On a second visit to the shop I exchanged the medium sized cardigan for
a large version, which despite being described as 41” to 43” chest was a little
taut. I took the cardy hazarding that it
would stretch a little once worn in the Flagon & Gorses where no doubt the
Abdul and Liam Redwood will take great glee in verbally ripping it to
shreds. I can take such mockery on the
chin though, which unlike the Abdul I at least have the civility to shave.
The cardy should help me ease even closer to the Peter
Sallis look that I have been unwittingly trying to perfect in recent months,
all I need now to complete the outfit is a flat cap but I refuse to wear such a
titfer as it will make me look like Barty Hook (who rudely wears his indoors,
which is apparently now socially acceptable in London, even at the dinner
table. Let us hope that such slovenly behaviour does not spread further north
and infect the good citizens of the Midlands.)
Another clothing mishap that has
occurred this week has been the mysterious disappearance of my favourite and
trusty blue boxer shorts that have had the misfortune of being in situ on my
person for many a year (not every day though I hasten to add as I do
periodically wash them). I hope that the
underwear in question is not lost forever, especially as we have been through
so much together. As I live alone it is difficult to mislay clothing items
during the laundry process especially as I have put fool proof procedures in
place to ensure all items are present and correct, including the practice of
washing my socks paired up (I have yet to encounter anybody else who does this
but to my mind it is a no brainer and ensures that a Spiderman sock is not
matched up with a Heart of Midlothian away kit counterpart.)
The boxer shorts are in none of
the places that they should be and they are not even in the one place where
they might have sneakily hidden, that is being buried deep in a laundered duvet
cover. Even Alfie the teddy knows not of
their whereabouts. I hope my dear son
Kenteke hasn’t put the boxer shorts on by mistake as it will cause much
laughter when he gets changed at football training with the boxer shorts on him
looking like Don Estelle’s shorts in It
Ain’t Half Hot Mum.
I am so fond of the boxer shorts
that even when the seat or crotch (or both) perishes in the future I had
planned to elongate my relationship with them by using them as a duster, which
would at least introduce a hint of pleasure into dusting and polishing my
Codger Mansions dwelling.
Thinking back, my emotional attachment to the boxer shorts
could be because they might well be the first pants that I had to part cash
with to procure; I remember buying them from BHS on Union Street,
Birmingham. Prior to that transaction my
Mom would buy my pants, they were gifted to me on my birthday or at Christmas
or (shamefully) they came pre-loved from my older brother Albino Duxbury.
Pants could also occasionally be acquired if a forgetful
player of roughly the same size left a pair behind at football; this was the
only perk of having to gather in all of the soiled and sweaty playing kit,
which was a chore us committee members had to undertake (except for captain
Willy Mantitt who would speedily shower and head for the bar, which were
ironically his quickest movements of the afternoon.) For
reasons of self-dignity I would only use pants gained at football for
footballing purposes (hiding them while they gained access and egress to my
person in the dressing room in case the true owner spotted them) but if Harry
Gout found a pair they would instantaneous be catapulted to best pants status
given the state of the rest of his underwear.
A rumour has circulated for many years that Gout stole
Chompa Babbee’s football underpants while the latter was away fighting in the
Falklands War but the rumour has never been properly substantiated. While Chompa was embroiled in the Battle of
Goose Green, Harry Gout was having a battle with goose pimples on an
unseasonably cold springtime football field, so he allegedly pilfered Chompa’s
racing green football pants as an additional warming pair. When Gout was confronted with the allegation
on Chompa’s return from the Islas Malvinas he retorted,
“In all honesty, it’s all a load of pants.”
And that, as they say, is that.
© Dominic Horton, October 2013.
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