Lowlife No 22 - Fifty Shades of Sufferance

Fifty Shades of Sufferance

Poor old Willy Mantitt, who is (so far) stoically sticking to his ill conceived but admiral pledge to not drink from 1^st June until his second child is born, which is due at the end of the month. His promise culminated in him having to drink non-alcoholic lager at a barbecue, on the Sabbath as well, which in my estimation compounds the woeful misery of his situation by tenfold. I vowed to Willy that I would think of him many times today when I undertake my Flagoneering, one lament for his sorry state for each pint that I quaff in the Pirate's Pleasure Palace.  Flagoneering, the act of drinking in my holiday home of the Flagon & Gorses, is much like mountaineering but without the mountains, the rope and the crampons. It rarely feels like an uphill struggle in the Flagon, though at times the air can become rarefied, especially if the landlord, the Pirate, drops one of his avalanche-like stink bombs, one of which I had the misfortune of experiencing last evening.

As Willy has got rid of his Nobby Stiles (see Lowlife 20), his newborn daughter will be born to this earth to a sober and pile-less father which represents a good start to life for any child but if I were a betting man (which unlike my mentor, Jeffrey Bernard, I am not) I would wager that one of Mantitt's first acts on returning home from the hospital after the birth will be to savour a glass of the refreshing and delightful drink limoncello, being his favourite tipple.  If Willy complies with his covenant of sobriety the welcome contents of the glass will never have tasted so sweet.  After the happy event of the wee Mantitt introducing herself to the world if Willy informs me that he has complied with his pledge of dryness I will at first be amazed but also in admiration of his new found will power.  This will be quickly followed by a dawning realisation that he is a barefaced liar.

Talking of Willies, after Chilli Willy lost his bet to me regarding the completion date for the renovation works at the Flagon his determination is now such that he seems to have magically moved the project on even in absentia, with him and his beloved, Carla Von Trow-Hell having been on holiday this past week. The exciting development was revealed to me as I approached the pub last eve when I noticed that the building is now proudly sporting colourful new hanging baskets, which is entirely fitting given that the Pirate, is a renown basket case. Such was my surprise at seeing the resplendent baskets that I involuntarily exclaimed to myself, “blooming hell.” I thought momentarily that I had been transported from the Stourbridge Road into Shangri la itself. Given his ability to dictate proceedings from afar Chilli Willy is not unlike a Mafia don, though given his Lincolnshire quirks he is more like the Oddfather than the Godfather. As Chilli’s frame is comparable to Luca Brasi, Don Corleone's fearsome enforcer in Mario Puzo's book The Godfather, I'd better watch what I write about him as I may well end up sleeping with the fishes in the Dudley No 2 canal.

Alexander Sutcliffe joined me for a drink on Saturday evening, in order to recover from his recent trip to Falmouth and I made comment on the hanging baskets to him. Such was Sutcliffe's eagerness to wrap his chunky fingers around a pint that he said he had not noticed the hanging baskets at all.  Given that his powers of observation are at best negligible, Alexander is not a man that I would want to be accompanied by if I ever find myself as the lead in an American cop series consuming coffee and doughnuts on a steak out.  To his immense credit though Sutcliffe is without exception always good drinking company, the pub being his natural environment (or so David Attenborough explained in the popular BBC television series, Lowlife on Earth.)

On Sunday to celebrate my success of finally securing a cheap tin opener and to get over the harrowing experience of having to go shopping, I popped into the Flagon for refreshment and to see what’s what.   In the light of invaluable help that Fudgkins has given the Pirate recently, the Pirate described Fudgey in gushingly glowing terms and referred to him in aggrandised fashion as a “saint”.   I suggested that if we are to treat Fudgey as a saint we need to have a beatification.  In the past many people have wanted to beatify Fudgey to a pulp but he always wriggles away in imp-like fashion.   Bob being clean out of holy water, we decided we would use lager for the beatification procedure as we did not want to waste any of the decent beer.

I thought Fudgey was being beatified on Tuesday when the sounds of choir boys annoyingly rang around the office emanating from the television in the staff room, but it turned out that it was a ceremony to celebrate the 60^th anniversary of the Queen’s coronation. Such is this country’s obsession with tiresome soap operas that I originally thought it was a bash to mark the 60^th anniversary of Coronation Street.  Maybe the Street and Queen Betty could hold a joint celebration which would end with our ruler dancing at the disco to One Step Beyond with Eddie Yates.  

Late on Sunday evening in the Flagon Drew Monkey explained that a helicopter had been hovering over the M6 motorway all day and he queried why anyone would want to stay in the same position for six hours.   Little did Drew know that as I had entered the Flagon at tea time, like the helicopter, I had also occupied the same spot for six hours.  I didn’t so much hover though as take root.    Before you start painting yourself a mental picture of me supping beer, laughing and generally having a jolly decent time you should understand that I wasn’t so much drinking as undertaking invaluable research for this column.

Despite my elongated spell in the Flagon I felt quite sprightly on Monday morning, unlike poor old Barty Hook when he awoke on Sunday.   Given years of experience, if there’s one thing I have expertise in it is how to deal with a hangover but the excitable Barty Hook (who is responsible for Lowlife’s London office) chose not to heed my advice and he is now suffering the consequences.  After enduring a sixteen hour drinking session at the Epsom Derby Barty was in a state if disarray on Sunday, sick as a pig and as weak as a kitten.  Hook’s internal organs were playing merry hell and he stated that, and I quote, “I think my body is trying to eat itself.”

I strongly suggested Barty slowly start to re-introduce alcohol to his system before the point of no return, being 1600 hours, but to no avail.  Instead Barty chose a day of fifty shades of sufferance on his flea ridden sofa.  After a terror laden trip on Monday to the Victoria & Albert Museum Hook tried to claw back the situation by drinking six pints of Guinness, a drink which he undoubtedly chose just to annoy me (see Lowlife No 8), but it was a classic case of trying to shut the stable door after the horse had bolted.   I blame no one for ignoring 99% of what I spout forth but I would hope that next time in similar circumstances Barty will ingest my insightful guidance. 

On the morning of the Sabbath Hook was flailing around like a disorientated drunk in the dark trying to find the light switch as he was attempting to find the right foodstuff to ease the chaos in his stomach.  I recommended Barty chomp on Mini Cheddars, which are innocuous enough but hold great restorative qualities, which is a fact that can be verified by the Phantom. On a working Friday morning after a boozy Thursday night the Phantom and I can at various times be seen trying to tease Mini Cheddars out of the troublesome vending machine in the canteen, as something savoury is needed to settle the stomach.  The legendary Cheddars are like old Wild West tonics that cure all ailments known to humankind, though at a premium of 74 new pence per packet one is entitled to expect more than a regulation cheese flavoured snack.

Weston Superleeds was consuming Mini Cheddars in the Flagon the other day, but not to overcome biliousness but just because he likes them.  Later that evening in a heartening turn of events the gifted septuagenarian jazz guitarist Benny Kurrell presented to me a pleasant little piece that he wrote about being locked in his porch and he said he was inspired to write it after reading Lowlife, which was very flattering to say the least.  So Lowlife has its first inspiree.  And in the absence of anything better, I will drink to that.   

Postscript

Many congratulations to my good friend and work colleague the Phantom and the lovely Mrs Phantom on the birth of their beautiful little daughter Poppy.  The joyous news and subsequent photograph of the little wonder was greeted by a smile on my face as wide as the gulf between mine and Willy Mantitt’s respective incomes.

© Dominic Horton, 5^th June, 2013.

Lowlife No 21 - The Poor Old Pilchards

The Poor Old Pilchards

Excuse me for yawning dear reader but today finds me quite exhausted on account of me sleeping very poorly last night. At times I am a terrible insomniac. In fact what I mean is, at times I am a very good insomniac as if I were a terrible insomniac I would be able to sleep at will quite easily. At times ideas for this column come to me in the sleepless wee small hours and I feel compelled to make notes, for fear of losing the material in the meandering maze of my addled mind. The note taking of course makes the insomnia worse as just as I am about to nod off another idea might appear, too precious to not record. Invariably, by morning time I cannot read my own appalling handwriting anyway and the idea is lost, or my scribble is legible but I have no idea what I meant in the first place.

What I should explain is suitable ideas I have for content for this column are valuable as I am very limited in what I can realistically write, as it needs to be in keeping with the spirit of the thing, so it cannot be too gloomy and I cannot disclose many of the intimate details of mine or other people's lives or offend anybody (well, not too much at any rate). "Hang on a minute," I can hear a throng of readers say in indignation, "you have offended me in these pages and last week you disclosed that Willy Mantitt was suffering from the Nobby Stiles, how much more intimate can you get." Fair cop governor, I hereby concede that point but it remains the case that at least 80% of the things that I see and hear in the Flagon & Gorses, for example, I am unable, for reasons of taste, decency and fear of litigation, able to publish in this column. You would probably fail to believe half of it anyway. This all means that the highly inconvenient 0300 hrs note taking is an absolute necessity as things that fall within the limited parameters of what I can describe in Lowlife are very restricted.

Last night, prior to the compulsion to write down illegible and mildly bizarre notes in the early hours, the nightmares came. I have had the same reoccurring nightmare now for the past twenty odd years and I have come to view it as an old friend, one of the constants in my life. The repeat nightmare always surprises me with its enduring ability to terrify me even though at a conservative estimate I must have experienced it over 2,000 times. As much as I love the wonderful Ken Loach film Kes its ability to entertain me after 2,000 viewings would wear a little thin I would imagine. Incidentally, the title of the Barry Hines book that the film was based on was A Kestrel for a Knave, which is a romantic and evocative title for a film that I can imagine, so it puzzles me why on earth the film title was shortened to the infinitely less attractive Kes.  

I used to live by the Fairfield public house many years ago and my whimsical cohort Gusty Monsoon used to occupy the bedroom that adjoined mine.  My routine nightmare always used to end in fiasco as on hearing me scream in terror Gusty, in the neighbouring bedroom, used to start giggling which made me quickly follow suit once I had come round, so I farcically went from terror to uncontrollable tittering within a matter of seconds. My faithful teddy Alfie now comforts me during black nights of beastly dreams and I comfort him through his, which the poor bear is prone to have as a consequence of having to live with me.

One of the things I often do in order to reach a state of slumber is to think of what delicious food I would like to eat such as juicy cuts of sirloin steak, cooked rare and served with English mustard, or a fresh and inviting Greek salad. Sadly, the actuality of my oft gruesome diet is a far cry from such delicious delights. My diet is largely dictated by the meagre amount of funds I have to expend on foodstuffs, so one has to make do. Francine Jacks brought a nostalgic wartime cook book into the Flagon & Gorses last week, full of recipes to cope with rationing, and casually flicking through the book I realised that I couldn't afford to cook most of the meals in there.

Only I could further deteriorate an already grim batch of tomato and pilchard soup that I concocted last week.  Not wanting to waste some couscous that my son Kenteke had left on his plate (which is highly unusual for him, with him having the appetite of Big Bill Broonzy) I foolishly tipped it into the saucepan and this had the effect of enstodging the soup to such a degree that it turned to the consistency of play dough.  To make matters worse with it being the wrong side of pay day I had to chew my way through the rubbery soup over the course of three evenings to finish it off.  Those poor pilchards, they once swam gaily and freely in carefree fashion in the North Sea never thinking they would end up in an almost indigestible soup in the kitchen of Codger Mansions in the West Midlands.      

At least now my diet is a slight improvement on my early Fairfield days when Still-in-Fjord, who also lived at the property, used to look in disdain and horror at the vats of gruel that I used to make with cheap vegetarian substitute mince.  What I saved in money by using the inexpensive meatless mince I gained in flatulence, much to the disgust of my nose pinching house mates.  Save for the tomato and pilchard soup calamity the only meal that represents such a culinary low (due to fiscal embarrassment) since my Fairfield days is the paltry one egg omelette I cooked, which was a most unsatisfying meal but which at least gave the Phantom something to chortle about. 

Some of Gusty Monsoon’s culinary performances were even more abysmal than mine.  Monsoon used to buy fresh vegetables with the express intention of cooking them in their newly purchased state to form a healthy, tasty meal.  However, the days passed and Gusty would eat all sorts of stodge and convenient nonsense and ignore the vegetables, which festered away in the refrigerator until they reached a mouldy, shrivelled state just beyond the point of edibility, representing the exact juxtaposition of a caterpillar transforming into a beautiful butterfly.    At this point, not wanting to waste the decaying produce Monsoon would frolic around the kitchen in frivolous fashion cooking a foul gumbo.  He would normally do this when hung over on a Monday, so the rank vegetable concoction was the last thing he needed.

After pay day I thought I would lord it a bit so I bought a fresh chicken and on the way back from the butchers I thought about all the tasty things I could make with the deceased, weighty bird, resting in peace in my shopping bag. I decided to make a curry, save a portion for salads for the week and cut some decent chicken breast sandwiches.  I duly followed the cooking instructions to the letter but on taking the cooked chicken out of the oven I discovered to my dismay that it had shrivelled up to about the size of a sparrow.  The poor bird must have been so laden with water that she had simply evaporated.

The price of food is spiralling out of control.  I bought a packet of half a dozen bog standard tomatoes from Tesco in the week for a pound, so by my calculations that is extortionately nearly 17 new pence per tomato.   I have now cut back to using half a tomato on each salad and I have devised a cunning new method of chopping the semi-tomato up to make it look like there is a whole tomato on the plate.  It comes to something when you have to deploy psychological warfare on yourself in order to economise on dietary budget.  

It is no wonder that, according to the Metro, that half a million people are going hungry in Britain struggling to feed themselves in the light of unemployment, rising food prices and benefit cutbacks.  The Metro reported on Thursday that 350,000 people (126,000 of them children) had received at least three days help from the Trussell Trust, which runs nationwide food banks, a scandal in a country with such wealth, which sadly seems to be so inequitably distributed.

I hope the tin openers of such impoverished people do not break, as happened to me this week.  A trip to the supermarket revealed that tin openers were retailing for an exorbitant £6.  Needless to say I did not make a purchase.  At least without a tin opener I will save money on food as I will not be able to access the contents of tins.  Such tricks are needed in these times of austerity.    Though I bet in the Cameron household a full tomato is present on the salads. 

Postscript

All the very best of luck to two of my Australia based associates.  Firstly, best wishes to Dustin Scoffman, who has now arrived in the Antipodes to live a life of mostly leisure whilst half-heartedly looking for gainful employment and living off the earnings of the lovely Mrs Scoffman.  Secondly, good luck to my shambling, Dudley-bred cohort D G Depardieu who has quit his job as a teacher to become a full time writer of children’s books (or barman, depending on how things go). I highly recommend the books he has had published so far (being My Hamster is a Genius and My Hamster is an Astronaut), which you can easily purchase via internet retailers such as Amazon.

I doubt I will be in the desirable position of resigning from my job any time soon to become a full time writer as the only thing I seem capable of writing is the nonsense that fills this column and no self respecting publication is remotely interested in it - I even got turned down by The Oldie.

© Dominic Horton, 31^st May, 2013.

Lowlife No 20 - Bye Bye Nobby Stiles

Bye Bye Nobby Stiles

What a diabolical pastime gardening is. It is a sport with no winners or losers, just victims. We have this idealised image of an elderly gent wearing half moon glasses and a fedora quietly pruning his rose bush with secateurs in his quaint Home Counties garden, tranquilly enjoying himself in what is seen to be a therapeutic, relaxing hobby. My experience of gardening seems mostly to involve cat sh*t, slugs and stingers. And to make matters worse there are all sorts of devil weeds growing in the garden at Codger Mansions, the likes of which are not seen anywhere else on the planet. The over excitable Antipodean botanist David Bellamy would have a field day. I would happily go up the Flagon & Gorses and leave him to it. It is only the broadcast of Test Match Special that is getting me through this awful gardening episode; hopefully my green fingers will be wrapped around a pint in the Flagon in the not too distant future and it is only the thought of that which is driving me on through the ailing flora and fauna of Codger Mansions.

Talking of the Flagon we have all had that awful feeling of sitting in a pub having a fine, leisurely time but it being hampered by the nagging thought that one has to leave soon against one's wishes to attend some function or fulfil a prior obligation. Poor Tim Shack was in this very position in the Flagon on Saturday lunchtime, as he was due to meet a newish suitor later that evening and he didn't want to pitch up to meet the lady in question three parts to the wind.  I suggested that after Tim’s disciplined lunch time booze cap it would he hilarious if on meeting his lady friend he finds her completely blotto.  Tim assured me that this would not happen as the lady was spending the afternoon at the hairdressers but the Pirate ventured that there was no guarantee that she would be sober as he visited a barber shop in the Czech Republic where they served beer on tap (Snip & Sip?).  Further, the Pirate illuminated us, there was beer absolutely everywhere in the Czech Republic with beer vendors even populating the streets, which made me think whether there are beer taps in Czech toilets; if there are this would be the Pirate’s equivalent of Liberace famously having a piano in his karzy. 

When I described last week (in Lowlife No 19) what charitable acts friends had recently bestowed upon me I completely forgot Fudgkins’s donation to the cause, being a bottle of Dalwhinne 18 year old malt whisky, which as you can imagine I received with great excitement. The only slight issue was that Fudgey had consumed 70% of the contents of the bottle prior to giving it to me.  Nonetheless, the Scotch represented a thoughtful and welcome gift and I should get a few large ones out of the bottle.  Fudgey also brought his wind up, rifle toting, one legged musical army doll, named Ten Minute Max, to the Flagon to cheer me up and I have to say that Max did the job, but not as much as the Scotch did.

On the theme of charitable donations, compared to my old vacuum cleaner the one that Tom Holliday kind-heartedly donated to me is a revelation.  It picks up dust and debris.  It has suction.  I no longer have to bellow whilst vacuuming, “pick up the dust you f*cking thing, do your job! If I didn’t do my job I would be sacked.”  I would rather use the words “vacuum cleaner” and “vacuuming” as opposed to the popular colloquialisms of “hoover” and “hoovering” as I am not a great fan of using a producers name to describe the type of product in question.  For example, Guinness almost has a monopoly on stout sales in this country and many consumers would not even know that Guinness is stout, they just know it as Guinness.  This is to the detriment of all other stouts and porters, such as the award winning Elland 1872 Porter, which ironically is one of my favourite drinks (I say “ironically” as the Elland Porter is rich, complex and dark whereas I am poor, simple and fair.)   Anyway, I digress.  Saving minor mishaps my dustpan and brush are redundant and vacuuming has all of a sudden become a mildly pleasurable sport and Codger Mansions a cleaner environment.   Unlike Bridgnorth, which holds dirty, dark secrets ……………..

Last week I described that my frivolous cohort Gusty Monsoon had an impromptu out of body and spirit encountering experience in Still-in-Fjord’s holiday home in Bridgnorth (see Lowlife 19).   The road in question in Bridgnorth used to be close to the old port area and I am informed that all of the houses on the road used to either be public houses or brothels; indeed Still-in-Fjord’s house still has the cellar doors at the front of the property.   After research I have discovered that a ghost of a lady, known as the Black Lady, roams the road and some long time residents are still nervous about walking in this area alone at night.  So this adds new found credence to Monsoon’s encounter with the spirit, whereas we all thought he had just consumed too much Old Rosie Cider.

I recommended Old Rosie Cider to Willy Mantitt as a cure for his Nobby Stiles but he said he can’t stomach the stuff, so seeking an alternative remedy he took a flier and visited his doctor Jean Claude, who braved Mantitt’s aris in order to give a diagnosis.   I explained to the ink-less Mantitt that pile cream is what tattoo artists recommend you put on new tattoos as it’s sterile and anti-inflammatory but the downside is that it has a distinctive smell so people ask you if you have got the Nobbies.  I suggested to Mantitt that he could inform individuals enquiring about the odour of the pile cream that he didn’t have the Nobby Stiles but has had a new tattoo on his ars*.   If Mantitt had got his doctor to also cure his problematic hamstrings and back he could have henceforth called him Jean Claude Grand Slam.

Mantitt celebrated his new found pile-less state by having a long, boozy Spanish tapas lunch with a working associate that included pigs’ cheeks and peppers stuffed with black pudding, five pints, a bottle of Rioja then two large mojito’s washed down with four sambuccas.  Pigs’ cheeks stuffed with black pudding sounds more like a Black Country delicacy than a Catalan one and would be more at home in the Bull & Bladder in Brierley Hill. A long, boozy lunch for me usually means 8 pints with the Pirate with a cob or pork pie about tea time out of desperation followed by a curry on return to Codger Mansions, which I usually spill down my dressing gown. At least I have the discipline to put the dressing gown on these days, which prevents the needless ruination of clothes.

Willy then confided in me a terrible phenomenon, the thought of which stopped me in my tracks and filled me with stone cold terror: he has no booze whatsoever in the house.  There would be blind panic at Codger Mansions if the cupboard were completely dry, even if I had no intention of drinking.  I just need the comfort of having it there. What if an emergency arises? It’s not so bad these days as there is always a 24 hour shop or supermarket to visit but in the old days the thought of no booze and no access to booze could be debilitating to such an extent it could lead to sudden death.

Death would necessitate a funeral and that got me to thinking who I would bequeath the honour of being my pallbearers when (if – let’s hope!) the inevitable happens.  All the usual runners and riders came to mind but then I thought such persons being of a similar or advanced age to me may well predecease me, so I thought that younger persons are needed.  On account of her youthfulness one of the obvious candidates could be Valentina Chassis but the only problem is that she is so diminutive that she would struggle to reach the coffin, given all the other pallbearers would be significantly taller.  The solution of course is for Valentina to wear massive Slade style platform boots to the funeral but I realise to facilitate this I would have to nominate a glam rock track as one of the songs for the service but it might not go down too well with my family me signing out to Blockbuster by the Sweet, especially as given my skint state and lack of assets there are likely to be bitter.

© Dominic Horton, 29^th May, 2013.

Lowlife No 19 - Funicular Frolics

Lowlife No 19

Funicular Frolics

On walking through the Jewellery Quarter district of Birmingham in Willy Mantitt’s coat on the way to work on a fine, sunny morning on Thursday I was pondering that I appear to have given the impression in this column that I am somewhat of a charity case. Having the most wonderful friends and associates (and a few dodgy ones) they have duly responded to the sorry impression that I have given of myself and recently Mantitt kindly donated me the aforementioned coat, Tom Holliday has generously offered me a vacuum cleaner (see Lowlife 16) and I have had magnanimous offers from two other cohorts of undoubted character to lend me money and pay for a taxi, respectively.

This benevolence from my dear, caring friends is truly humbling. I unburdened Mantitt of the coat on the basis that he didn’t care much for it anyway and wanted it out of his life, and I will graciously accept Holliday’s gift as he wouldn’t part with the chattel unless he intended me to have it, him being no sucker, which is ironic considering he’s giving me a vacuum cleaner.

However, I draw the line at poncing money and taxis off valued associates, although I am eternally grateful for their flattering, heartfelt offers. My late Grandad Charlie, who for good reason I idolised, advised me “neither a borrower or a lender be”, and I have always stood by this wise maxim other than having the obligatory and essential overdraft. I have none of what now appear to be essentials of modern living, such as a dish washer, a tumble drier, a 40” plasma television or the latest, swish mobile phone. But neither am I saddled with debt. I do have a (second hand) George Foreman grill and a portable radio in the bathroom (which sadly does not have long wave to receive broadcasts of Test Match Special) and both things seem pretty lavish to me.     

I have recently acquired a lap top computer at the bargain price of £149, for the purposes of writing this column, so I have now limped lamely into the 21st Century, unannounced. Toby-in-Tents cemented my charitable status by considerately donating a computer keyboard, mouse and monitor to me and if I can muster up enough capital to purchase a computer desk I will actually be able to use them.

     
I was donning Mantitt's coat on Thursday as the weather persons at the BBC had assured me that I would be accompanied by rain but nothing could be further from the truth. Admittedly, generally the weather persons at the BBC seem to get the forecast somewhere near correct but they seem to conveniently forget the “forecast” part and sell the weather as a non-negotiable done deal, which of course it is not. The weather forecast is an educated guess but the forecasters seem to use the word “will” more than a provincial solicitor dealing with the bereaved, e.g. “rain will spread in over the Midlands later this afternoon.” I would prefer it if the forecasters remembered their lot and did not make themselves out to be god (not that I am the slightest bit religious of course) by reconsidering their delivery to something like, “my forecast is that rain will spread in over the Midlands sometime this afternoon.”

Talking of the weather an ill wind bloweth at the moment as I have effectively been suffering from the ghastly booze terrors for two days after spending an enjoyable but heavy weekend in Bridgnorth, Shropshire with Still-in-Fjord, Dustin Scoffman and Gusty Monsoon, staying at Still-in-Fjord's quaint new holiday home in the town. The weekend was planned to see off Scoffman to the Antipodes where he is jetting off to start a new life with his wife, the lovely Mrs Scoffman.   I am not sure what crime Scoffman has committed to justify transportation but judging by his attire on the weekend my guess is a crime against fashion.

When I turned up on Friday to meet the three reprobates I thought we were going to a teddy boy convention as both Dustin and Gusty were sporting quiffs.  Luckily, they had both forgotten to pack their flick knives and knuckle dusters.

On Friday evening, after surveying Still-in-Fjord’s wonderful new property we had a couple of pints before taking the obligatory trip on the town’s historic funicular cliff railway, then tried a few more beers.   The proceedings turned sinister when on return to Still-in-Fjord’s house Monsoon had an impromptu out of body experience and Still-in-Fjord was so concerned about his sanity that he opted to sleep in the same room as Gusty; while all of this was going on I was apparently sleeping in the same room, eating a family sized bag of Doritos crisps whilst snoring – photographic evidence of this was produced to me in the morning.  I was told the following day that I woke in the middle of the night in the small room crammed with me, Monsoon and Still-in-Fjord and made mutterings about it being like a slave ship before doing a lady wee in the ensuite bathroom in Scoffman’s room.

On the way to breakfast on Saturday morning we discussed the mottos of towns and cities and I explained that the English interpretation of Halesowen’s Latin motto is “Look to the past, the present and the future” before Still-in-Fjord illuminated us with the information that Wolverhampton’s motto in anglicised form is, “Out of the darkness cometh light.”  At that moment out of the Tesco cameth Gusty, carrying paracetamol for his hangover. 

After a stout English breakfast it was off to the Severn Valley Railway, which we used as a diversionary tactic to keep us out of the pub for a while.  Two charming Salopian travelling companions, who work on the railway as volunteers, kept us entertained all the way to Kidderminster and kept our minds off beer, which was no mean feat.  The delightful King & Castle pub at Kidderminster station saw our first pint of the day and thereon in we navigated our way to public houses at virtually every station on the return journey.  We were under time pressure to quaff pints as we had a train timetable to stick to and consequently we had more to drink than if we had sat in the pub relaxing all afternoon but we all had a jolly good time in the process.

Last night, being the first back in my own bed after the weekend excursion, saw the cold sweats and post-drinking horrors and usually in these circumstances the devil himself shows up to orchestrate proceedings. But things got so bad in the night at one stage that when my satanic friend popped his head around the bedroom door he clearly realised the gravity of my state and he sped off back into the night, clearly not wanting to get involved with the situation with it being atrocious even by his standards.  Due to a persistent nagging headache behind the eyes at about 0300 hours I decided to take a couple of paracetamol, but my kidneys, which seemed to be suffering their own private hell, were not too pleased about this and were one step away from fleeing to attend a meeting of Kidneys of Drinkers Anonymous.  Only after heavy negotiations did I convince the kidneys otherwise. 

When I awoke at 0630 hrs after a turbulent 90 minutes of fitful sleep (and I didn't even change ends at half time) the early morning world outside seemed to be coming alive, which was ironic as I felt half dead. I had not felt booze terrors as bad since returning from Willy Mantitt’s gleeful stag junket in Munich a few years ago. On that occasion it was only the diligent attentions of Toby-in-Tents that got me back from Bavaria, but that trip back to Blighty was not without mishap.  However, that dear reader, is a story for another day.

 

© Dominic Horton, 21^st May, 2013.

Lowlife No 18 - The Enchanted Path & the Colonel

The Enchanted Path & the Colonel

I had a right result at the dental surgery this morning and they are words that I have never uttered before.  I lost half a tooth biting into a pork scratching in the Flagon two weeks ago, so I went to the dentist, following pay day.  I expected the old drill it and fill it routine but the new dentist, Shulman, told me that I have got three choices.  Choices?!  This was a bit of a turn up for the books as my old dentist Walter, who has now retired, just got on with the business of filling my mouth with metal. 

Shulman explained that the remainder of the tooth was not decaying and the fact that I was experiencing no pain or sensitivity bore this out, so he can a) do nothing, b) fill the gap or c) put a crown on the tooth.  I asked Shulman how many readies the crown would cost and he said £250 – I corrected him and I explained that I only had two choices as I have not got access to a quarter of a grand.  If I had the crown I would have a tooth worth more than my car, the decrepit but stoical Pat.

After brief discussion with the dentist I opted to simply leave the tooth as it is heeding the old litigator’s motto, “Don’t trouble trouble until trouble troubles you.”  And it is no coincidence it was also the cheapest option.  The receptionist explained that I did not even have to pay a consultancy fee, so unprecedentedly I left the surgery not having to part with a penny.  All in all, despite his tardiness and slovenly appearance I am taking a shine to Shulman and his new age dentistry.  There was an odour of spicy food sweats permeating from Shulman this morning though and I surmised that he has risen late and skipped the inconvenience of a shower.  For all I know, Shulman’s failure to get up at an earlier hour might well have been the product of late night studies to further his vast knowledge in new dentistry techniques, so I won’t pass judgement.

As far as Walter is concerned it just goes to show that a pair of smart, polished brogues and a clipped moustache can go a long way to inspiring trust in a man, which turned out in hindsight to be misplaced. 

All of this meant that I had 60 notes burning a hole in my pocket as I had prepared myself for the dentist’s bill by carrying cash as the only other payment he accepts is cheque and the last time I paid him to my eternal horror the cheque bounced, so I am not risking such humiliation again.  Cash in the pocket will inevitably mean a trip to the Flagon later to celebrate my good fortune but in an effort to preserve the few good teeth I have left I think I will steer clear of the pork scratchings. 

Whilst waiting to see Shulman I was reading a magazine called Heart Matters in the waiting room, a publication which the title suggests, gives helpful advice on all matters cardio.  Predictably there was a double page spread on tips to reduce alcohol consumption which included all the usual favourites such as drink lower ABV drinks and alternate alcoholic drinks with soft drinks etc.  (If I go to a bar to order a coke for myself the words never come out quite as I intend and they normally sound something like, “A pint of best bitter please.”  The word coke seems to stick in the throat; I choke on the coke so to speak.)  Anyway one odd bit of advice in the article was use smaller glasses for your drinks and drink slower.  As you and any other self respecting drinker will know using a smaller glass will usually increase alcohol consumption as the drinks will go down quicker, so at that point I lost all respect for the writer of the article who clearly is not a drinker himself.  Given the choice of going to heaven for the climate or hell for the company the article’s author would undoubtedly choose the former, which is just as well as that means I won’t have the ill luck of meeting him there.

Willy Mantitt informs me that his unfortunate work colleague the Colonel (part time comedian and ex-MC at the Hawthorns) was in need of a dump but was stuck on the M6 as a poor, tortured soul was threatening to jump off the motorway bridge.  Instead of sitting frustrated in his car with his log touching cloth the Colonel should have left his vehicle and walked up to the bridge and exclaimed, "for f*ck’s sake, just jump off the bridge I need a Tom T*t." It would have at least provided a light hearted moment in a desperate situation, even if the Colonel subsequently soiled himself. 

I have always had a liking for light hearted moments in otherwise difficult circumstances. There was a lovely photograph in the Guardian many years ago of the mass murderer Fred West and two policemen smiling, probably sharing a joke or laughing at an audible fart. 

Talking of mass murderers what a dreadful affair the Boston marathon bombing was.  My prime source of information Willy Mantitt told me that the evil but incompetent bombers ran out of petrol – I automatically assumed he meant that they had ran out of petrol for the bombs which lead me to think that the bombers must have had an underprivileged childhood as clearly they could not have been furnished with a copy of The IRA Bumper Incendiary Bomb & Booby Trap Christmas Annual 1974. 

I was delighted to foreclose on a deal of securing a cut price bottle of Navy Strength Plymouth Gin the other day and consequently I excitedly left the Flagon planning to use the spirit by mixing my favourite gin based tipple, gimlets.  Although I know full well that you have to use Rose’s lime juice in the making of a gimlet I foolishly purchased the cheaper Sainsbury’s own equivalent, which resulted in disappointing consequences.  It is like cooking a piece of prime sirloin steak and smothering it in foul cut price mustard.  I will never learn.

Meanwhile, in an uncharacteristic fit of enthusiasm I had the misfortune of doing a spot of gardening at Codger Mansions the other day.   I realised that if I start now, before stingers sprout up chest high as they do, I could re-establish the Codger’s enchanted path (in the copse at the back of the garden) down to the Loyal Lodge public house down the road on Fungus Hill.  When he lived in the Mansions my dear brother the Codger used to tell Mrs Codger that he was popping out to weed the patio and sneak down the enchanted path to the Lodge for a surreptitious pint.    I decided against maintaining the path as I have no need for such

 

covert operations not having a wife or anything similar and I do not have a strimmer anyway.  And to boot I do not particularly have a desire to go to the Loyal Lodge with the Pirate’s Pleasure Palace (aka the Flagon & Gorses) being only a 10 minute walk up the road.

The renovation works in the bar at the Flagon & Gorses move on at a pace. It just happens to be a slow pace.  Chilli Willy seems to have conveniently forgotten that he bet me a pint that the work would be complete by the end of April.  I am not going to press him on this point as Willy may get upset and heaven knows what he might put in my dinner at the impending Jewish food night.    The plastering has at least been completed in the bar and many a punter has commented that it is the first time that they have seen the Flagon plastered and not its customers.  On getting plastered (in the drinking sense) the convivial Pirate commented, “there are those that do it with panache and then there are c*nts.”  Enough said.

  

© Dominic Horton, 13^th May 2013.

 

Lowlife No 17 - I did it Peapod

I did it Peapod

[For those of you who know my dear friend Mark Rutter, I would like to make it clear than the following was written prior to the events of the last week or so.]

This Monday morning finds me bloated and this on account of eating a whole packet of Aldi’s own family size Frazzles-style crisps when I got home from the Flagon & Gorses last night, which was pure gluttony as it was on top of a curry that I had prepared for myself before going to the pub.  I bought the imitation Frazzles with other associated nibbles and beer for tonight’s match as my son the Cannonball (now called Kenteke), Alfie C and Tom Holliday are coming round to my Codger Mansions bolthole to watch the football.  Mind you, it is probably a good thing that I am bloated as I am off to Rackhams at lunchtime to try on a pair of navy formal trousers that are selling for half price in the sale – it’s like the old trick of having a big meal prior to trying on a hired wedding suit as you need room to manoeuvre once you have consumed the wedding breakfast.

Why is it that when I am making a rare personal call at work that the office always goes deathly silent so everyone can hear my business?  I had to call my mother to see how her dog Thai is as he was taken into the vets this morning.  Mom called me at 0630 hours asking if I could help get poor old Thai down the stairs to take to the vet (as Mom lets him sleep in her bedroom) as he is a Doberman roughly the size of a small horse.  Mom called me back to say the vets are going to move him as it is a specialist job.   As my colleagues can only hear me and not my Mom they would have heard something like this:-

“How is he then?”

“Did you know he had arthritis before?”

“Have his legs completely packed in or can he walk?”

“Are they going to operate or are they going to put him down?”

My colleagues must have been thinking, “Blimey those Hortons don’t mess about, the first sign of arthritis in their family and they put poor old uncle down!”

In other news, after reading the last Edition of Lowlife fellow Aston Villa sufferer Randy Bitchfield kindly told me that the column is addictive reading.   I sincerely hope that Randy does not get addicted to Lowlife, as with it being relatively new there are no known treatments or cures and there are no self help groups for Lowlife addiction.   Randy suspects that if a Lowlife self help group is formed that meetings would be held in the Flagon & Gorses and this seems to make perfect sense.    Instead of the 12 step programme of Alcoholics Anonymous, Lowlife Anonymous would follow a 3 step approach – 1. Go to the bar and order a pint; 2. Drink the pint; 3. Repeat steps 1 & 2 several times until you forget what you are addicted to.   

Being a shrewd and sensible man Randy wisely buys a minimum of two pairs of trousers when purchasing a suit, which highlights the difference between the two of us; following such strategies has lead Randy to be comfortably off, though it does also help him  that he is an accountant. 

The diminutive Towena Rallis told me, in that infectiously enthusiastic way she has about things, that she is the first member of Lowlife’s fan club, even though there is no fan club (to my knowledge).    In honour of this I have even made a membership card for her.  Towena might find the membership card more of a hindrance in life than a help, and it certainly won’t get her into the Pensax Beer Festival for free, which is where Sleepy Tom Parker and I (as well as other associates and Flagon dignitaries will be headed in a few weeks.)

On the way to the Bell at Pensax last year Sleepy Tom, who generously offered to drive, chose to ignore my simple directions to the venue, opting to go on a mystery tour which ultimately lead to us being lost and nowhere near our destination.  

Tom reassured me that we would soon be sampling the beery delights at Pensax as he said he had a Sat Nav system which would guarantee our swift passage to our desired location.   Whilst I was wondering why the hapless Tom had not used the Sat Nav in the first place I read out the post code of the Bell to him only to be told that being an antiquated pre-war model the Sat Nav does not work off postcodes. Neither did it recognise Pensax when we typed it in.  As a last desperate act Tom typed the Bell’s road number into the Sat Nav (or Shat Nav, as Tom’s model should be called) and Tom span off on another wild goose chase in search of the Holy Grail (or at least a pint of bitter.)     

We did finally reach Pensax (where later true to form Sleepy Tom nodded off early doors, despite me insisting he stand up to stay awake – I will have to prop him up on a broomstick this year like the film Weekend at Bernie’s) but not before Tom took us on an unscheduled detour to a picture postcard mythical Worcestershire village, which was a remarkably delightful sight but by then I was verging on desperation for a drink.  The name of the village was Tedstone. 

Ted Stone is the name of an old school friend who played a small but important part in a fiasco I was recently reminded of from my childhood.

When I was at high school at the age of 15 we had a once weekly lesson called “Design for Living” in the theatre, which holds about 200 people and on the day in question the theatre was packed. I can't remember a great deal about actually what Design for Living was meant to be teaching us, other than it included sex education. Anyway, I bet my mate Peapod (aka Podney Trotter) that during the lesson that I would walk onto the stage in front of everyone and lie down and would make the teachers forcibly remove me. When I lay down on the stage I held up a poster I had made saying “I Did it Peapod” and Ted Stone took a snap of it, having his camera on his person as I had tipped him off about the stunt. Podney was horrified about the poster as he thought it would implicate him in the errant act and he loudly and nervously proclaimed to the on looking teachers, “It’s nothing to do with me!”

The teacher who was doing the talk on the stage, Billingham, at once asked me to leave the stage and I refused saying he would have to carry me off. Billingham had snow white hair and his face was red with rage so he looked like a back-to-front, oversized Swan Vestas. He eventually reluctantly dragged me off by the Farah’s and it was straight off to the Headmaster’s office.

The bearded Welsh Headmaster, Howells, explained I was in deep trouble and asked me if I was having problems at home and I explained that I had undertook the act for a bet. I then went onto state that I had raised £17 for charity and if he punished me I would not pay the money to Guide Dogs for the Blind and further I would report his lack of charitable understanding to the Halesowen News. Howells was unimpressed by my comments but equally didn’t want his good name besmirched in the local newspaper for all the parish to see, so he gave me a gentle ticking off and I walked out of his office scott free.

The £17 that I raised off the wager with Peapod and other side bets never did find its way to Guide Dogs for the Blind or any other charity and I chose to invest it by handing it over the bar to Barry, the landlord of the Woodman, which is now a convenience store, ironic in many ways as on the fateful day I have hitherto described Billingham and Howells were extremely inconvenienced.

Postscript

I should make it clear at this juncture that I do not now, nor ever have had, a history of withholding or pilfering monies from charity.  The £17 raised from the "I Did it Peapod" venture was from personal bets and I only claimed that the monies were raised for charity when I was in a difficult spot sat in Headmaster Howell's office.  I could have gone with the idea of donating the monies to Guidedogs for the Blind but after the excitement and pressure of the events of the day I needed a pint, which I am sure you understand in the circumstances. And besides, the deception was hardly on the widespread scale of the Phantom's Dragon Oil scandal, the least said of which the better.  My legal adviser has strongly suggested to me to not to comment further on the sorry Dragon Oil business and I have heeded his advice. Coincidentally, my legal adviser is the Phantom.  

Anyway, pledging the monies behind the bar in the Woodman could be seen as a charitable act given the increasingly perilous state of public houses - indeed the Woodman is no more and has now been converted into a shop, as explained above.

Nonetheless, despite my desperate fiscal position, as a gesture of goodwill I will donate the monies I make for this weeks column to Guide Dogs for the Blind. Sadly, the chances are I will make less than a penny cash or other consideration from this column, unless that is the Pirate buys me a pint on the strict understanding that I immediately cease publishing editions of this nonsense and placing them on the bar in the Flagon & Gorses.

© Dominic Horton, 24^th April, 2013.

Lowlife No 16 - The Secret Lemonade Drinker

The Secret Lemonade Drinker

I won’t be wearing a black armband in honour of Margaret Thatcher, who died on Monday, but it was sad to hear of the demise of the esteemed and loved English character actor Richard Griffiths who died at Easter.   It was good to see that when Griffiths’s death was announced on Good Friday that St John’s Church, Halesowen flew their St George’s flag at half mast in honour of the great man.    I can’t think of any other reason why on Good Friday the flag would have been at half mast; I’m not that au fait with the world of Christian religion but surely nothing bad or untoward could have happened on Good Friday or they would have called it Bad Friday.    Good Fridays used to be bad though as the pubs shut early, the shops were shut altogether and there was no horse racing.  But at least it was a Bank Holiday, so on balance the description of the day as “Good” was justified.    There was a headline on BBC News 24 today reading, “THATCHER COFFIN” – I thought if they don’t sort that cough out, it will kill her.

I was reading an obituary of Richard Griffiths while eating my lunch of gruel style sausage casserole the other day.  The last batch of the casserole that I cooked yielded 10 portions and I only used 8 budget sausages (and I ate one of those during the cooking process) so on average that is 7/ 10ths  of a sausage per portion, which is a more meagre ration than would have been the case in war time Britain.  My financial situation is increasingly dire so cutbacks are somehow needed but if I cut my meat rations back any more I will basically be a vegetarian, which would at least please my veggie friend Miss C.  When they emptied the supermarket shelves on the back of the recent horse meat scandal they should have brought the produce around to my residence, Codger Mansions, as I would have eaten it without reservation or hesitation (but with a little English mustard.)

Despite the lack of pennies in my coffers I finally had to bite the bullet and buy new work shoes (see Lowlife No 1), so it was off to pay a little trip to the shoe shop I normally use, as their brand of shoes are always supremely comfortable, if a little pricey.   Despite the shoes feeling agreeable in the shop, once I started to wear them they felt about as comfortable as being in a lift with the Kray Twins.  Another doomed venture.  I put a brave face on the matter and decided to break the shoes in, which I foolish thought would not take long; it would be easier to break in the Bank of England. 

Being Monday morning I could not face the crippling shoes, so I am now wearing an old pair which are not suitable for the office and are unattractive all round, I cannot think what possessed me to buy them in the first place; they look like a pair of Cornish pasties, but at least they are comfortable.

On describing my shoe misery to Willy Mantitt he confided in me that due to an over ambitious lunch his slim-fit shirt was a little taut.  I predicted that after Mantitt reaches the shortly impending milestone of forty years of age that he will never purchase a slim-fit shirt again, consistently opting for comfort over style.   I forewarned Willy that one day he will catch himself sauntering around Marks & Spencers in a daze wondering how he got there. It comes to us all. Mark my words, I cautioned.

I never actually buy anything from M&S as I always find that for me the clothes are oddly cut and ill fitting and I question what I am doing there and covenant never to return - this is probably part of the rights of passage process to actually purchasing clothes from there.

M & S sell wonderful slippers though, a comment which in itself is a sign of getting older.

As the lovely Mrs Mantitt is to give birth in June Willy has rather rashly made the solemn promise to stop drinking at the end of May.  I predicted that if he is good to his word and ceases tippling at the close of May that given the stresses of the impending arrival of the infant he will begin drinking again at the beginning of June.   I counselled that the strains of having a baby will only be eased with a little swill of grog as the naïve Mantitt will need a tipple more than ever.  And having a week’s paternity leave will put Willy in holiday drinking mode anyway.

If Mantitt does genuinely comply with his undertaking to stop imbibing, he will more than likely end up being a secret lemonade drinker, which is the worst type of drunk. He will find all sorts of ridiculous excuses to pop down to the garden shed to have a quick snifter of a secretly secreted bottle of Limón cello, his favourite tipple.  

I know for a fact that Willy has a drinks fridge located in his garage and given the seclusion of the location he simply will not be able to help himself.  While Mrs Mantitt thinks Willy is fashioning a shelf out of surplus wood, he will actually be sampling Smirnoff whilst perching on the sit down lawnmower.  Apparently, Mantitt’s father-in-law, who often helps with loathsome DIY tasks while the Mantitts are out, knows the whereabouts of the vodka and greedily quaffs the lot.  I advocated that Willy create a sub-stash of booze in the garage, but that really would be going too deep into secret lemonade drinker territory to the point of no return.

I usually associate the point of no return and drinking with the stage of the day after a heavy session where you need to start drinking again before you start to slide into the abyss.  I tend to think of 1600 hours as generally the point of no return, but it can of course be dependent on the variables of the drinking session in question (length and time of session/ amount of alcohol drunk/ type of alcohol drunk/ quantity of food consumed etc.)

Mantitt is a Cockney (or more adequately described as a Mockney) and I had the great pleasure in attending a concert performed by fellow Tottenham Hotspur supporters of Willy’s in the guise of the loveable Chas ‘n’ Dave.  I am indebted to my good friend Alexander Sutcliffe for generously donating me ticket to the concert at Birmingham Town Hall.  Although the ticket was free the performance was priceless. 

In the first half of the set the duo rocked their way through songs that they played in London pubs in the 1970’s before they became famous, including numbers by Piano Red, Harry Champion, Jerry Lee Lewis and Clarence Frogman Henry.  Chas was leisurely dressed in an Hawaiian shirt, turd catchers and Crocs sandals and it was highly impressive stuff (the music that is, not Chas’s clothing combo).  After the break Chas re-appeared in smart frock coat, trousers, shirt and shoes and the band banged out their 1980’s foot-tapping hits to the delight of the audience.   Both Alexander and I agree that it was a show straight out of the top drawer.

I noted the band’s drummer was new and I imagined how the advertisement for the position read in the London Evening Standard, “Chas ‘n’ Dave require a drummer – must be able to play Cockney pub classics.”   The drummer turned out to be the son of the original drummer Mick Burt.

In the highly unlikely event that I get married again it would be wonderful to have the dynamite duo playing at the reception in the Flaggon & Gorses but it is more likely that I will win the lottery than get married and I don’t even buy a lottery ticket.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my friend Willy Mantitt for his ongoing entertaining correspondence, which is a great help to me in the writing of this column.

I am blessed with the most wonderful friends (in addition to a number of less desirable associates.)   Society generally values marriage and romantic bonds above friendship, but generally friendship lasts for life and often romantic unions do not.  With this in mind, I would urge all my close friends, or at least some of them, to change the terms of their Last Will and Testaments to leave me some of their assets and chattels.  At the very least I would be eternally grateful if someone could bequeath me a decent vacuum cleaner; it does not even have to be a Dyson.  My vacuum cleaner is less than adequate as it actually spits out more dust and debris than it sucks up, so I have to finish the job with a dustpan and brush; I am exceedingly thankful that I have got laminate flooring in Codger Mansions and not a carpet.   And remember dear friends, the gift of the vacuum cleaner is contingent on you dying, so why should you give a sh*t. 

© Dominic Horton, 18^th March, 2013.