Castaway
By
Dominic Horton
I've
long fantasised about going a whole weekend without touching a single
drop of booze but not in the circumstances that I have found myself
in the last few days. After gentle merriment in the Flagon &
Gorses with Neddy La Chouffe and Jolly Dave on Thursday evening I
found myself having to rise from my bed in the small hours to visit
the toilet; there's nothing unusual about that in itself, as at least
one sleep-interrupting comfort break is the norm for me these
days but this time I didn't just need a routine pee but rather I was
sick with all the violence of a gushing dam that has just been
penetrated by one of Richard Todd's bouncing bombs.
 |
| Wilfrid Brambell as Albert Steptoe in Steptoe & Son |
It
took me a while to realise that I had not had the ill judgement to
eat a Chinese takeaway from the Rhareli Peking
after leaving the Flagon, so once I returned to bed
feeling decidedly dicky I began to retrace what food I
had eaten during Thursday to see if I could isolate what might
by the cause of the vomiting: two rounds of peanut butter on toast; a
Tesco Everyday Value range yogurt (that was in date); a banana
(not on the turn - well, slightly on the turn maybe but nothing
drastic); a Cadburys Caramel Freddo (a treat after going running);
home-made tomato and lentil soup; tinned mackerel in
teriyaki sauce (quickly becoming a favourite of mine) with plain rice
and salad; and finally the obligatory packet of Mini Cheddars
(or cheesy communion wafers as we call them) in the Flagon &
Gorses to accompany the beer, which was of the best quality and not
nausea inducing. So on the face of it nothing I had consumed during
the course of Thursday had caused the biliousness that I
had experienced. I put it down to being in the company of Neddy La
Chouffe and Jolly Dave and tried, but failed, to get some sleep.
On
Friday morning I was the antithesis of being as fresh as a daisy and
I felt like I had been poisoned by an especially foul
and repellent sauce that the chef at the Rhareli Peking, Mr
Ping, reserves for those he dislikes the most, such as local
authority health inspectors. I had a busy time of writing planned
for Friday but I knew that the day was going to be a write off, so
feeling rotten I had no option but to retreat back to bed and feel
sorry for myself. I learnt during the course of the morning that I
was most likely suffering from a stomach bug as my dear son Kenteke
was off school with the same complaint so I had undoubtedly picked it
up from him.
By
Friday lunchtime I had stopped being sick but I'd had a belly full
(ironically) of rolling around the bed holding my stomach and
groaning like Albert Steptoe in the first Steptoe &
Son film after he had contracted food poisoning in Benidorm.
There was no use in my shouting out “Harold!!!” as I was alone
in my Codger Mansions home, except for Alfie the teddy that is, and
he has always proved useless in medical emergencies.
 |
| Jolly Dave caught playing air guitar in the Flagon & Gorses, by request of Toby In-Tents. |
Poking
around the kitchen I quickly decided that I couldn't face trying to
eat food, not even the most inoffensive sort - even the thought of
dry toast took on the unpalatability of a typical lunch in the
film Alive. At that very moment my mobile phone beeped
and buzzed and a text from Pat Debilder asked, “Do you fancy some
curry?” The master craftsman quipster Bob Monkhouse himself would
have been overjoyed with the precision of the comic timing. Luckily
I had my wits about me enough to realise that I would be an utter
fool to hastily turn down Debilder's excellent homemade curry as it
would come in handy once I was restored to full health in a few days
time.
I
had a shower to get rid of the odour-de-puke-in-de-toilette and after
that I was in a condition to face a little television. I thought that
I might as well make use of my newly acquired Chromecast device,
which allows you to watch pictures on your TV screen that are being
streamed on your computer. So I was off and away casting, which was
very suitable as I was effectively castaway on my lonesome in Codger
Mansions. I started to watch The Road, starring
Viggo Mortensen, a film that is so miserable that it makes the
average edition Lowlife seem like Mary
Poppins. I was downbeat enough as it was given my ailment
so I switched the film off and started to watch another, The
Visitor starring Richard Jenkins, about a bloke who goes to
his little used flat in New York only to find an illegal immigrant
couple living in it.
The
film had all the hallmarks of being a feel good movie - which is what
I needed to lift my spirits - as after Jenkins' character had
initially told the immigrants to f*ck off out of his flat he had a
bout of sympathy and invited them to stay for a couple of nights
while they were looking for a new place to stay. He struck up a
friendship with the couple after the Syrian male taught him how to
play the African drums. All was going swimmingly for a time
but predictably things ended in sorrow and gloom as the
Syrian ended up being deported and his mother decided to follow
him, which Jenkins' character was not very pleased about as he has
spent the best part of the latter stages of the film subtly trying to
get her knickers off. She did get into bed with him once but it was
inconclusive as to whether they actually did the business or not but
it seems unlikely as she was upset at the time about her son being
deported. I wish films would spell things out for clarity and not
cloud things in ambiguity as I often find it frustrating. Even a
quick note on the screen would suffice, in this case for example:
“for the avoidance of doubt he tried it on but she wouldn't let
him.”
 |
| The late Bob Monkhouse |
I
still felt very ropey on Saturday and I was in doubt as to whether I
should go to Villa Park to watch my beloved Aston Villa struggle to
fight off the menaces of the title contending Chelsea. In the end I
thought that getting out in the fresh air might do me some good and I
must have been the only Villa fan going to the game that day who was
doing so for an uplifting tonic. After pluckily leveling the
score to 1-1 Villa eventually decided that it simply would not
be sporting to let a decent team like Chelsea leave Villa Park with
less than all three points, so they charitably donated a goal to
opposition late on in the game so that the visitors could win 2-1.
The result ensured that I was restored to being as sick as a parrot.
Earlier
in the week I had arranged to meet Harry Gout in the Flagon &
Gorses for a drink at Sunday tea time but my state by then was still
highly delicate and I decided with a heavy heart that quaffing pints
with Gout was not a sensible past-time to partake in at that moment.
But late in the evening the walls of Codger Mansions started to close
in (and they haven't got far to go with it being a Victorian terraced
house) and I made a dash for last orders at the Flagon. So my
fantasy of a dry weekend was dashed by a mere splash of beer at last
knockings on Sunday. The sober Friday, Saturday and Sunday was a
dryathalon but within sight of the finishing line I pulled my
hamstring and failed to complete the race.
 |
| Richard Jenkins and Haaz Sleiman in The Visitor |
I
was greeted by the sight of the usual surly Sunday night inmates in
the Flagon. I had a sip of beer and it took my body quite a while to
reach a decision but eventually it reported back to me that while it
was not wholly pleased about the introduction of the alcohol into my
system that it was not going to reject it outright. It was an odd
and virtually unprecedented situation for me to be stone cold sober
in the Flagon late on the Sabbath. Mind you, if I had of been three
sheets to the wind Colly Coren's glaring emerald green jeans were
enough to sober up any man.
Coren
said to me that he had been catching up on editions of Lowlife and
that he had read seven that day. I instinctively thought
that seven editions is too much for anyone to cope with in one go so
I think I need to put a health warning on future editions: “The
Department of Health recommends that you do not read any more than
three editions of this column in any one day and that each edition is
taken after meals as it might put you off your dinner if you read it
beforehand.” If you decide to ignore the health advice then on
your head be it but be warned: you might even struggle to get down a
piece of dry toast.
©
Dominic Horton, February 2015.
Lowlife
is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
Email:
lordhofr@gmail.com
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