Waiting for
Something to Happen
By Dominic
Horton
I found myself having a Mini Cheddar crisis
on Monday morning as there was none to be seen in the vending machine on our
floor of the office. The Cheddars were
an absolute necessity to ease the slight biliousness caused by Sunday’s
drinking and the sorry offering from the Rhareli Peking Chinese takeaway; the
chef Mr Ping graced the dish with so little meat that it could have almost as
qualified as vegetarian. Ping must think
that he is the kindly butcher Mr Jones from Dad’s
Army rationing his meat in such a way but it was more a case of “I’ve been
done” that Clive Dunn. I might be
taking my life in my own hands buying supper from the Peking as the BBC
reported this week that despite last year’s horse meat scandal there has been a
worrying lack of food standards inspections with some restaurants and takeaways
not having been inspected for over a year.
I doubt that Ping’s kitchen has got cockroaches though as any discerning
bug would give the place a wide berth which means that I am lower than an
insect in the order of things.
In search of Cheddars I scaled the stairs
at work to the floor above and I was relieved to find that there were some in
the vending machine with the yellow wrapper shining like a warm and welcoming
sun. But to my horror I found the
machine to be out of order, which was, well, out of order. I trudged Cheddarless and despondent back to
my desk to assess my options, which were few.
I told my work colleague the Mexican my
tale of Cheddar woe and being a reader of these pages he immediately asked me,
accusingly, if I was hung over. “Hung
over” was a far too severe and damning word to describe my state so I answered
in the negative but it does beg the question what constitutes being hung over
and for that matter when can one be said to be drunk. These deep philosophical
questions demand much difficult theorising at the best of times but even more
so on a Monday morning when one is despondent about the working week ahead and
the senses are dulled through Sabbath supping.
There are times though when you can say to
yourself without reservation that you are without doubt hung over and if you
have to carry out any trying tasks in such a condition it can be
challenging. At such times I console
myself with the thought that at least I have not got to go in a skydiving
simulator, as did my brother the Codger in his drinking days when he was in
woeful post-booze condition. It would be
harrowing enough being in the skydiving machine in such a state but the misery
would be doubled if you were sick as presumably the sick would splash back into
your face.
I would venture that one person who was in
a hung over state on Sunday morning was the Pirate, the inimitable landlord of
the Flagon & Gorses, as it was his birthday party on Saturday night to
celebrate the start of his 64th year on this planet. To
compound matters the Pirate had to work behind the bar from Noon until 1900
hours as for some reason Lario Manza was in absentia and this was especially
painful for the Pirate as I was sitting the right side of the bar quaffing the
sumptuous Pirate 63 stout (brewed by the Angel Brewery to compensate humankind
for having to put up with the Pirate for 63 years), which was sitting a little
awkwardly in my stomach on top of the pilchards on toast that I had for
lunch.
The enchanting
Penelope Keith recently revealed on BBC Radio Five Live that she had to eat
pilchards on toast for Christmas Dinner after suffering a power cut on the
day. Being a child of the 70’s I would
like to think that I am not fazed by a power cut and when one happens I can
manage and improvise as needed. I
haven’t had a power cut in Codger Mansions for a few years but the last one
literally drove me to drink. It was a
Monday and I had made a solemn promise to myself that I would not go up the Flagon
& Gorses due to on-going funding difficulties and I was unflinchingly
determined in my resolve. Within an hour
of being back in the house the power went off but I was undeterred and made
myself a sandwich for tea by the light of a torch and I decided to retire to
bed with a good book and a candle.
Within minutes a deafening drilling noise started to sound right outside
the house which shook the Mansions to its core. Needless to say I couldn’t concentrate on
the book and sleep was completely out of the question. I popped outside in my dressing gown to talk
to the workman to ask how long the drilling of the pavement was likely to go on
for to which he answered, “At least until after midnight mate.” I was left with little option but to get
dressed and seek sanctuary in the Flagon and have a drink or two. It was a genuine Hamlet moment and not the
first time that I have ended up in the pub drinking through no fault of my own.
The pub called
Tuesday last and I dutifully answered to its enticing cry. I found Windy McDisco blowing a putrid anal
gale, true to form, that would have earned him a at least a silver medal if
trumping was a discipline in the Commonwealth Games. Fortunately the Pirate did not enter into
competition with him and I was mightily relieved that Windy and the Pirate
refrained from duelling banjos on this occasion. Anyway, to join into the spirit of things I
explained that earlier in the day I had done the gentlemanly thing and f*rted
before I had got into the lift at work so as not to offend the nostrils on the
other occupants of the elevator.
However, to my dismay like a loyal dog the f*rt followed me into the
lift. The Pirate, who was on form for once,
quipped, “that was wrong on many levels.”
The Pirate
must have finally found his funny bone as he came out with more drollery
shortly after; I bought a round of drinks but left the Pirate’s in the pump as
he had not finished his pint. When the
Pirate was strolling to the toilet Chilli Willy behind the bar in reference to
Bob’s pint said in all innocence, “do you want me to pull it for you?” Looking down at his private parts the Pirate
retorted, “No, I will pull my own thank you.”
Despite the
Pirate trying to ruin things by having his birthday party the normal hum drum
quietude of the Flagon has more or less been restored following the frightful
Christmas and New Year period and that is fine by me. It is now back to being a case of “We all sat
round or lounged at the bar waiting for something to happen” as Christopher
Isherwood put it in reference to his regular watering hole in the book Goodbye to Berlin. The peace needs to be shattered
occasionally though by an influx of customers to keep the Flagon machinery
rolling so it is highly disconcerting that the dry January disease has reached
epidemic proportions and sufferers are upholding their sobriety like a badge of
honour. If you are suffering from this
affliction the Pirate has many remedies that can cure you and they are a damn
sight cheaper than a prescription.
There is bound to be an example of a dry January saint arriving at his
local on 1st February for a pint only to find it shut down with the
doleful landlord explaining, “We have had to shut down as trade was so poor in
January all because of w*nkers like you.
Thanks a million.” I am the
first to admit that drinking, its culture and its people are far from glamorous
and in fact the whole business is often not far short of the exact opposite and
I encourage no one to drink more or for teetotallers to take up booze. But a mass boycott of public houses in the
New Year at the time landlords need customers most is at best thoughtless and
at worst disdainfully selfish. So if you are suffering from dry January
disease, or you feel it coming on, do yourself and your landlord a favour and
take some suitable medicine. After all, even
the thought of sobriety seems better after a pint.
© Dominic Horton, January 2014.
* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com .
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