No 133. Every bubble has passed its physical

By Dominic Horton

It’s rumoured that the coronavirus outbreak started after a Chinese man ate a bat.   Of the flying mammal variety that is, not a sporting implement made of willow.  I bet most of the world would like to get their hands on the fellow.  But I have no animosity towards him.   We’ve all been there, famished and in the throes of desperation, late at night after a gallon has gone down in the pub, rummaging around the kitchen trying to find something suitable to eat.     The wife of my associate Lal found him in such as position once, eating microwave melted margarine out of the tub, as if it were a soup. 

Before the days of a plethora of easy to access takeaways, and even microwaves, the organised person might have purchased a boil in the bag Vesta curry.  Which would sit in anticipation of its owner’s return home, like a faithful dog, or a blow-up doll.   There was always a frisson of danger and excitement with Vesta curries.  The combination of a drunk man and boiling water means the danger element needs no explanation.   And the excitement was provided as you could have a game of hunt the meat.

People used to have different tactics to address the post-pub food quandary.  Davie B used to empty the contents of the freezer, de-frost it in the microwave then mash it together and fry it.  He called it bubble and squeak. Which is exactly the sounds that were produced when it came out of the other end in the morning.   

When I lived with Davie B’s counterpart, Big Dave, his preferred method was to cook us a fishfinger curry.  It was an uncomplicated affair involving fried fishfingers covered with a tin of curry sauce, accompanied with under or over cooked rice.  At a squeeze, our meagre frying pan could hold 9 budget fish fingers - which contained more fingers than fish – so we had a dilemma, with 9 being an odd number and there being two of us.   To begin with we used to have 4 ½ fishfingers each.  But one night Dave suggested one of us have 5 and the other 4, with the roles reversed next time.  Of course, the only issue with this was that next time neither of us could remember who had 5 and who had 4 the time before, so predictable petty squabbles followed.

It wasn’t the only time the drink influenced the recall powers of Dave and I.  Our beloved Aston Villa had the temerity to reach the League Cup final, so we had to channel our energies and finances to get to Wembley.   After a quick and decisive committee meeting, we came to a swift and simple solution to save the cash we needed – we would stay in on a Friday night. 

For two young bachelors, who were desperate to get to the pub at the end of the working week, this was a Captain Oakes sized sacrifice.   But it didn’t turn out to be too bad, as the television programming on a Friday evening then was pretty good, with such gems as Three Irish Priests and a Tea Lady and I am Going to Take the P*ss out of Politicians for You.   All washed down with lashings of competitively priced premium lager and budget dry sherry.   The sherry is a story for another time.

The plan worked swimmingly, and we managed to save the required fold to finance our Wembley sojourn.   Sensibly, when we left for the pub one night, we took the wad with us as we didn’t want a burglar to think it was Christmas.  In another shrewd move, when we stumbled in from the pub, we decided to hide the cash to keep it safe from unsavoury fingers, before retiring to our quarters to dream of the Twin Towers and glory.   The only issue being come match day we couldn’t remember where we’d hidden the money.

Our ensuing panic-stricken search was more thorough and diligent than King Arthur’s search for the Holy Grail.  And like Arthur’s search, our hunt frustratingly bore no fruit.   We had given up hope and we were having frantic discussions about who we could ponce the necessary money off, when I absentmindedly leant against a dusty, unloved and rather drab painting that hung over the fireplace.   And to our eternal surprise and utter relief, down dropped the wad of cash.  Bingo. 

Villa beat Leeds United 3-0 in the final and a jolly good time was had by all.  But of course, at the moment none of us have the benefit of watching live football, unless you are Belarusian.   The lack of football is the least of people’s worries, as we are stowing ourselves away in our dwellings, hoping that this situation will resolve itself quickly.  

Kind and concerned family, friends and associates have been asking me how I’m coping with the hermit life, saying it must be awfully tough living alone in isolation.   But generally, it isn’t tough at all.  Afterall, at heart I’m a bit of a loner and introvert.   And I count my blessings that I can still see my dear son Kenny, I can work from home and I’m comfortable in my own company in my modest but cosy Codger Mansions bolt hole.

To begin with, like most other people I would imagine, I soaked up the coronavirus news, avidly watching, listening to and reading the latest developments in great detail.  I pretty quickly realised that this wasn’t doing me much good and was increasingly my anxiety levels, which are usually high at the best of times.   So, I heeded Sir Matt Busby’s advice.  

It’s well documented that when Sir Alex Ferguson began his management of Manchester United things didn’t go swimmingly.  So, predictably the commentary in the press was less than favourable.   Fergie told Sir Matt that he was agitated about the things he was reading about himself and his team in the press.  Sir Matt’s advice to Ferguson was simple – don’t read the papers.   And that’s exactly what I’ve done, I’ve disconnected myself from the media and resultantly my anxieties about the current crisis have decreased.

Us regular inmates at the Waggon & Horses are used to isolating ourselves away from the real world – that’s pretty much the whole point of pub life.   The pub temporarily insulates you from the less desirable aspects of existence, which wait menacingly for you outside the door at closing time.  Sure, people tell you the news, but rarely will the national news be discussed in any depth beyond the headlines.  The news will more likely be things like Swanky’s bar in the town has closed down or Neddy La Chouffe’s kitchen floor has fallen in because of flooding, so he’s having to cook his tea in his wellies.    But I won’t bore you with any more on all that, as I’ve written about it many times in this column before.

But suffice to say, there’s not been any pub-going in recent weeks, and there’s unlikely to be any for a while yet either.   I’ve walked forlornly past the Waggon a few times and looked in at the haunting, silent interior of the bar, hand pulls devoid of clips. And I’ve wondered when I’ll be able to recalibrate my work/ pub balance again to healthier levels.

I’ve recently experienced virtual pubs.  But the problem with them is every time I ‘attend’ them I get virtually p*ssed.  I don’t know why, but I always drink quicker than when I go to an actual pub.  Maybe it’s the stress of getting to grips with the technology.  More likely it’s to get over the horror of having to look straight at the faces of your fellow virtual pub attendees.  In an actual pub you usually don’t have to do that, especially if you are sitting on a settle, side-on to a fellow inmate.  And there’s an infinite number of things to distract the eye in an actual pub, to divert you from the grotesque faces of your associates.  To make the virtual pub experience more unsettling the picture of someone’s face broadcast via their mobile phone makes it look like they are in a hall of mirrors in Blackpool.   Luckily as you aren’t actually in their presence, they can’t kiss you quick.

But things could be a whole lot worse.  Imagine having to experience extended periods at home in the 1970’s world I grew up in, with only three television channels and no WiFi or other technological distractions.  So, I count the blessings that I have.  One of which is that my beloved Aston Villa haven’t lost in weeks.   Every cloud, they say, has a silver lining. 

© Dominic Horton, 2020.

* Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall