Pies,
Pints & Power Cuts
By
Dominic Horton
They say you should never tempt fate but this is exactly what I must
have done by writing about power cuts a couple of weeks ago as I was afflicted
by one first thing on Monday. The morning of the first day of the
working week is usually a sombre time as it is but losing power while I was in
the shower (a powerless shower) took proceedings to a whole new level of
anguish.
The lights started flickering on and off when I was showering making it
like a scene from the classic thriller Psycho but given my aching back I
would rather have been playing the part of a patient in the unreleased and
little known Hitchcock film Physio. Fortunately the stab in the
back was only metaphorical in the form of the power cut. True to
form the shower and the lights went off just as I had lathered up the shampoo
in my hair meaning that I had to wash it off in the dark with freezing water in
the bath, which was a rude awakening and it certainly blew the cob webs away.
I dashed into the living room only to find it full of an acrid smelling
smoke with a burning smell emanating from the fuse box. I immediately
called my long-time associate Harry Gout as he knows a thing or two about
electrics and he’s generally a man for a crisis. Being the good egg that
he is Gout pitched up pronto style. After poking around in the cupboard
that houses the meter and fuse box Gout swiftly arrived at his concise and
damning verdict: “It’s f*cked, you had better call an electrician.” The
electrician turned up briskly and looked at the meter and advised, “It’s
f*cked, you had better call Npower.”
Ahhh, my dear friends at Npower. The matter, I thought, is now in
the lap of the gods. I had such difficulty in getting through to speak to
an actual human being at Npower (or their equivalent) that anyone would have
thought that I was trying to speak to the Queen at Buck House. Eventually
I got through to Ashley at Npower and she explained in her attractive Scottish
accent that an electrician would be out to see me within the next three to four
hours. Realising that this would mean that I would be confined to my cold
and powerless barracks I asked Ashley if she would kindly ask the electrician
to call me when he was fifteen minutes away from my Codger Mansions dwelling so
I could pop up the Flagon & Gorses whilst waiting. Ashley joylessly
explained that this would not be possible so I had to sweat it out in the
house, which was very difficult given that it was freezing as I had no heating.
Having just read an article by the ever thoughtful and insightful Will
Hutton in the Observer about the forthcoming Scottish independence referendum I
asked Ashley how she would vote. “I haven’t thought about it,” she
explained. It seems that Npower employees are not encouraged to think.
Undeterred by the crisis and my cold and dark home I put my dressing
gown on over my clothes, like Halesowen’s version of playboy Hugh Hefner. It is
doubtful though that Hefner wore two pairs of socks under his slippers and a
Marks & Spencers thermal under vest, on account of them being sure fire
passion killers.
I thought about putting a notice on Facebook via my mobile telephone to
ask if any local ladies would be game enough to pop round and warm me up a bit
but I thought better of it as knowing my luck one would misunderstand my
intentions and turn up with a steaming plate of stew.
There was no sign of the Npower electrician come lunchtime so there was
only one thing for it and I dug out my trusty Coleman Duel Fuel camping stove
from the back of the cupboard and used the last sachet of beef and tomato cuppa
soup, which I had been saving for a special occasion. The soup starter
was followed by a main of Super Noodles which fell sadly short of living up to
their name.
By the time the Npower man arrived in the late afternoon I was chilled
and demoralised and I had been too benumbed by cold to read even, so I had
resorted to listening to my battery operated radio. “You are lucky,
the house could have easily burnt down” commented the man. Once he had
finished his business, which only took twenty minutes or so, I decided that it
was my duty to drink to the fact that Codger Mansions is still standing and
that I am still alive, so it was off up the Flagon & Gorses to see the
Pirate & Harry Stottle, who were both comfortably dug in by the time I
reported for duty.
As I was in a round of drinks with the over ripe duo of the Pirate and
Stottle I thought it would simplify matters if I abandoned my usual half pint
approach in favour of fulsome pints, which could be a dangerous road for me to
go down if it becomes the norm again. I need to develop a strategic
drinking management policy for the immediate future as if I don’t have a
structured and meticulous alcohol plan all hell could be let loose. The
only problem with half pints is that the perfect synchronisation between a beer
pump and pint glass cannot be matched by its half measure counterpart. I
need to develop the policy and ensure that it complies with the constraints of
the department’s limited monetary budget whilst maximising effectiveness and
long term impact. I’ll run the white paper past myself when the content
of my in tray reduces a little.
Reflecting on my half pint drink reduction plan, that I began a few
months ago now, I feel that it has been a resounding success, without actually
having any evidence to back this up and it could be the case that I am simply
looking at the matter through rose tinted beer goggles. The Abdul
shed light on the matter on New Year’s Eve when he commented that I had drunk
three halves in the time it had took him to sup his pint. I
rebuffed the Abdul’s comment on the basis that he probably drank his pint
slowly simply to make his point and that it was New Year’s Eve after all and I
was most probably drinking uncharacteristically at pace. I need to
collect hard data so I will have to mark the amount of drinks that I have on a
beer mat but the only problem with this is once I have had a few I will forget
to do it. There are lies, damn lies and statistics and then there are
figures that are collected when p*ssed that mostly prove to be unintelligible
and always wholly unreliable.
Another thing that I need to be wary of in the Flagon & Gorses is
pies. Pat Debilder has been supplying me with a steady supply of his homemade,
world class pies and I have naïvely been accepting them gratis and gorging myself
on them with such satisfaction that shortly after each hit I am left craving
for more. I now have the dawning realisation that Debilder has been
employing the classic pie peddler’s tactic of handing out his delicious wares
for free until the helpless victim becomes hopelessly addicted and thereafter
the unscrupulous Debilder starts to charge exorbitant prices for the
pies. I have gullibly fallen into Pat’s trap and I will be injecting
liquidised steak and kidney before I know it. I have been powerless
in my home this week, now I am powerless to the lure of pies.
I am delighted and
relieved to report that my temporarily absent phantasm, who inhabits my
regular, recurring nightmares, returned this week and I think it was the
promise of one of Debilder’s pies that tempted him back. The
phantasm dramatically announced his restoration to Codger Mansions by scaring
me sh*tless in my sleep before customarily drifting off into the night when I
awoke screaming. Once I had calmed myself down and brought myself back to
reality I began to heartily chuckle at the unexpected and unannounced
reappearance of my old demonic friend. He’s pretty harmless really, he
pops round in the dead of night, gives me a little fright and he quietly slips
off again on his way. In an odd way the phantasm gives me comfort
that someone (or something more like) is there in the night, he is a familiar
reassuring presence in a similar way to the ever present landlord, the Pirate,
at the Flagon & Gorses and to mark the return of the ghoul it is time to
join the Pirate for a celebratory pint. Or half.
© Dominic Horton, February 2014.
* EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.
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