Lowlife 40 – Working on the Chain Gang

Working on the Chain Gang

Three straight nights of sobriety; I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  Though last night I did have a fleeting, longing look at a cold bottle of the wonderful Aldi Steinhauser German lager (which I am convinced is rebranded Becks) which is nesting in the fridge before having an admonishing word with myself.  I then turned to do the washing up and the bottles of ale in the wine rack seemed to beckon me but again I resisted before spotting the vodka when I was rustling among the bottles for some squash but it was only a brief flirtation and I determinedly stuck to the squash.  I have realised that I take great pleasure in putting a “0” in the “Units consumed” column for the day on the Aquarius five point alcohol reduction plan, it is a similar sense of satisfaction to earning a clean sheet in a game of football, which being a defender was my principle objective.  Pleasure can also be found of course in clean sheets in a different context when getting into bed after changing the bed linen, which usually happens once a week in Codger Mansions in order for me to eschew complaints from Alfie the teddy, who does after all spend infinitely more time in bed than me.

On Monday morning I found that clean steps and not clean sheets was what the cleaning man at Snow Hill Station was desirous of as I found him mopping the station steps without much enthusiasm or vigour; the reason for the lack of zeal in the cleaning man’s approach was that he was idiotically undertaking the mopping task during the morning rush at 0845 hours, just as commuters were streaming out of the station to their various offices and workplaces in the city centre, so the steps were once more dirtied as quickly as he had cleaned them, leading to him having to continuously repeat his actions.  Incredibly when I reached the office I was greeted by the sight of the resident Mr Mop undertaking exactly the same action as his Snow Hill station counterpart, resulting in comparable results. (The office is on the third floor of the building and I always take the stairs to provide me with a modicum of exercise before sitting on my ar*e for eight hours.)  I hazard a guess that in their former lives both men worked on the chain gang of a state penitentiary in Mississippi and had to break bricks and the mopping and re-mopping of steps in some way gives them a degree of comfort and connection with their former lives.  Both fellows need to go back to school to reconsider their respective mopping tactics.

(As an aside, in matters relating to cleanliness, or more accurately a lack thereof, the line of the week goes unequivocally to Ung Pirat who described his father’s (i.e. the Pirate’s) chaotic and dishevelled room as “a ‘70’s charity shop that has exploded.”)

If Messrs Mop and Mop returned back to school they would find themselves in the middle of a crackdown by the authorities on parents taking children out of class during term time to go on holiday, much to the consternation of many parents who can ill afford to go away in the school breaks.  I would imagine that the stricter regulations will lead to many parents claiming that their children are ill so they can go on holiday.  This tactic could pose problems if families go to clement destinations as it will look very suspicious if the child returns to school with a glowing suntan.  Given this potential issue I predict that there will be a boom in holiday bookings to Iceland and I have rustled up a few pennies and bought a share in Icelandair.  Flagon & Gorses dignitary the Abdul can be spotted in Iceland most weeks, not the country but the supermarket in Halesowen, buying a stock of frozen chicken tikka lasagnes.  If families do visit hot locations on their illicit holidays they will have to dress their children in burkas to prevent them acquiring a suntan or force them to inhabit one of those funny little tent like shelters whilst on the beach to keep them out of the sun.

One schoolboy who will most probably not complain about not being able to go on his jollies during term time is the bespectacled Harry Potter as on the evidence of the film that I watched on Saturday night with my son Kenteke Potter seems to be having a jolly and japing enough time at school as it is.  Mind you, if ever Hogwarts were to be visited by OFSTED they would be sure to fail the inspection as amongst other things the pupils’ lives appears to be under constant threat.  During the film (the Prisoner of Azkaban) one of the Hogwarts teachers even turned out to be a werewolf, so the school cannot be CRB screening the staff, which even I know is a basic requirement.   Incidentally, the physical appearance of my old cohort the Frymaster General is so similar to that of a werewolf that it is said that on a full moon he turns into a human.

Despite it not being a full moon the Chancellor George Osborne had to visit the Chinese in a state of desperation this week but I empathise with him as I often have to do the same, usually on a Saturday night after closing time.   That said since my last despatch I have managed to avoid my nemesis, being the Baby Faced Assassin who lurks behind the counter of the Rhareli Peking Chinese take away and I feel a lot better for not having ingested his fatty oriental wares.

Although I did not suffer the unusual tastes of the Rhareli Peking this week, on Sunday in the Flagon & Gorses Chilli Willy did serve me an intriguingly drink called a Shrub in order to illicit my opinion.  I couldn’t place the alcoholic content of the drink; at first I thought it tasted like a very bitter cider (or even a cider gone off) that was mixed with black currant and tonic then I suggested to Willy that the drink contained sherry. Willy said no on both counts.  The drink tasted curious and unusual but was pleasant and different.  Chilli Willy eventually confessed that it is a non-alcoholic drink and that it is a form of vinegar mixed with tonic.  Willy plans to sell the drink and other “adult” soft drinks in the pub soon, which will be a welcome addition.  If the Flagon are to sell adult products they might want to enlist the services of Dick the Hook who has well known expertise, professionally speaking may I add, in that department.

One thing that is neither tasteful or intriguing is the proliferation of charity street sellers that litter Birmingham City Centre; it is like playing British bulldog walking down New Street trying to dodge past them but they still try and accost you even when it is obvious to all and sundry that you are making great efforts to navigate away from them.  Mind you, the only thing worse than being stopped by these street sellers is not being stopped by them, especially when you are the only person in their proximity, as it feels like an affront.  By not stopping you when you walk past them they are effectively saying to you, “I’m not even going to bother wasting my time approaching you pal as by the looks of it you haven’t got a pot to p*ss in.”  If the charities want to place their staff on the streets, instead of bothering people for money they may be better employed approaching passers-by who are clearing in need and offering them assistance, e.g. “ee are mate, let’s go and buy you a new coat because frankly the one you are wearing is a complete disgrace and if you are waiting for it to come back into fashion then don’t bother as it was never in fashion in the first place and we both know that if you try and wash it to remove the filth and grime that the coat will perish in the process.”   So that’s the Lowlife lowdown on charity, next week: no faith, lost hope, all matters religious and Pope on a rope.

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

Lowlife 39 - Last of the Summer Insobriety

Last of the Summer Insobriety

You will most probably not believe me (and I could hardly blame you) but I only had a total of three pints last Sunday as in my new regime I set myself a limit of eight half pints but I only felt the need for six halves before I headed off from the Flagon & Gorses into the night.  I felt a bit cheated on Monday morning though, as despite eating before and after the pub and drinking plenty of water I had a faint headache (which ironically is not something that I normally get if I drink a great volume of beer [unless I add cider into the mix]) but it transpired to be a product of an oncoming cold, which I have most likely procured second hand from Toby In-Tents.   

Additionally, on Saturday night after drinking five pints of beer at Hugh Queensbury’s 40^th birthday party I entered previously uncharted waters by having a pint of coke (bold italics intentional for emphasis) and it was a free bar to boot.  I did follow the coke with three VATS (small may I add), so all in all it was a night of unprecedented reserved moderation, which I was pleased about.   It was a rare pleasure for me to see Barty Hook, Gusty Monsoon and Hugh Queensbury in a more intoxicated state than me and long may it continue. On leaving the party at the Duke William in Strourbridge at 0130 hours Barty insisted we repair to the River Rooms, being the local night spot, despite there only being half an hour until close of play.  Fortunately for me the doorman refused us entry so I was able to retreat back to Codger Mansions for an economy brand fish finger sandwich (“easy on the tartar sauce please Jeeves”) and a bit of Match of the Day (which I had recorded) before bed.  Maybe if Barty had taken the gentlemanly measure of removing his flat cap the doorman would have allowed us entry, in which case I was grateful that he kept the offending hat firmly lodged on his glabrous head.

I sincerely hope that feelings of crapulence are well and truly condemned to the past.   I realise though that I must not become complacent as the next unfettered p*ss up could only be round the corner so I need to be on my guard, especially given the liberal drinking habits of most of my cohorts and associates.

Despite the relative sobriety over the weekend I was disappointed to find on Monday night that I had the reoccurring nightmare that I customarily have on the first completely sober night of the week.  Maybe the nightmare is not linked directly to booze consumption (or lack thereof) but is the Archfiend’s way of reminding me that he is always lurking ominously in the shadows of my existence.

At Queensbury’s party a friend told me that he is having a difficult time in life and as he does not have my telephone number I offered it to him on the back of a beer mat (in time honoured tradition) and encouraged him to contact me if he needed help or a friendly ear.  I later found the beer mat sitting dolefully abandoned on the bar in a pool of beer.  So much for Horton’s counselling services.  The friend obviously estimated that talking to me for half an hour would make his condition markedly worse and he is most probably right.

After the Comet voucher disaster last year (such voucher being rendered useless after the business in question had the indecency to go into liquidation before I had redeemed it) I am keen to cash in all vouchers that are gifted to me soon after receipt, so after the tight chino debacle (see Lowlife 36) it was back down Next this week to find a suitable clothing item.  A rather attractive cardigan (or so I thought at the time) caught my eye so I bought it and I didn’t even need to try it on as the size guide informed me that medium size equates to a 39” to 41” chest and with me being a 40” it should have fitted perfectly. 

On return to Codger Mansions in the evening I tried the cardigan on but to my dismay I found it to be woefully small and to compound matters it made me look like a pensioner; I did not notice the patches on the elbows of the garment in the shop, though the free packet of Fisherman’s Friends with every purchase should have given the game away.  In my mind’s eye I can clearly see my late Grandad Tommy sitting in his easy chair, studiously tending to his pipe in a similar cardigan to the one in question.  On a second visit to the shop I exchanged the medium sized cardigan for a large version, which despite being described as 41” to 43” chest was a little taut.  I took the cardy hazarding that it would stretch a little once worn in the Flagon & Gorses where no doubt the Abdul and Liam Redwood will take great glee in verbally ripping it to shreds.  I can take such mockery on the chin though, which unlike the Abdul I at least have the civility to shave.

The cardy should help me ease even closer to the Peter Sallis look that I have been unwittingly trying to perfect in recent months, all I need now to complete the outfit is a flat cap but I refuse to wear such a titfer as it will make me look like Barty Hook (who rudely wears his indoors, which is apparently now socially acceptable in London, even at the dinner table. Let us hope that such slovenly behaviour does not spread further north and infect the good citizens of the Midlands.)

Another clothing mishap that has occurred this week has been the mysterious disappearance of my favourite and trusty blue boxer shorts that have had the misfortune of being in situ on my person for many a year (not every day though I hasten to add as I do periodically wash them).  I hope that the underwear in question is not lost forever, especially as we have been through so much together. As I live alone it is difficult to mislay clothing items during the laundry process especially as I have put fool proof procedures in place to ensure all items are present and correct, including the practice of washing my socks paired up (I have yet to encounter anybody else who does this but to my mind it is a no brainer and ensures that a Spiderman sock is not matched up with a Heart of Midlothian away kit counterpart.)

The boxer shorts are in none of the places that they should be and they are not even in the one place where they might have sneakily hidden, that is being buried deep in a laundered duvet cover.  Even Alfie the teddy knows not of their whereabouts.  I hope my dear son Kenteke hasn’t put the boxer shorts on by mistake as it will cause much laughter when he gets changed at football training with the boxer shorts on him looking like Don Estelle’s shorts in It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.

I am so fond of the boxer shorts that even when the seat or crotch (or both) perishes in the future I had planned to elongate my relationship with them by using them as a duster, which would at least introduce a hint of pleasure into dusting and polishing my Codger Mansions dwelling.

Thinking back, my emotional attachment to the boxer shorts could be because they might well be the first pants that I had to part cash with to procure; I remember buying them from BHS on Union Street, Birmingham.  Prior to that transaction my Mom would buy my pants, they were gifted to me on my birthday or at Christmas or (shamefully) they came pre-loved from my older brother Albino Duxbury.  

Pants could also occasionally be acquired if a forgetful player of roughly the same size left a pair behind at football; this was the only perk of having to gather in all of the soiled and sweaty playing kit, which was a chore us committee members had to undertake (except for captain Willy Mantitt who would speedily shower and head for the bar, which were ironically his quickest movements of the afternoon.)  For reasons of self-dignity I would only use pants gained at football for footballing purposes (hiding them while they gained access and egress to my person in the dressing room in case the true owner spotted them) but if Harry Gout found a pair they would instantaneous be catapulted to best pants status given the state of the rest of his underwear.   

A rumour has circulated for many years that Gout stole Chompa Babbee’s football underpants while the latter was away fighting in the Falklands War but the rumour has never been properly substantiated.  While Chompa was embroiled in the Battle of Goose Green, Harry Gout was having a battle with goose pimples on an unseasonably cold springtime football field, so he allegedly pilfered Chompa’s racing green football pants as an additional warming pair.  When Gout was confronted with the allegation on Chompa’s return from the Islas Malvinas he retorted, “In all honesty, it’s all a load of pants.”  And that, as they say, is that.

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

Lowlife 38 - Oh Bête Noire, I’ve gone Too Far

Oh Bête Noire, I’ve gone Too Far

I have little knowledge about the majority of things and on some subjects I have less than no knowledge, which is a difficult thing to achieve when you think about it.  I often wonder if people who are the opposite of me and who are good at pub quizzes just have a lot more general education and expertise or whether they just have better memories and the ability to instantly recall information.  The knowledge of the average taxi driver these days seems to be appalling and on several occasions when jumping in a cab in Birmingham city centre the cabbie has no idea where Halesowen is, let alone the Flagon & Gorses.  It always amazes me that London cabbies are a different breed altogether and know even the most obscure places and how to get to them.

One thing I know a little bit about is drink and drinking, which is nothing to shout about and it is ultimately often a boring subject.  After foolishly drinking too much in the last week or so (due to an unfortunate and partly unforeseen set of circumstances) I am the second day into the hideous and diabolical process of drying out, with all its horrors and physical and mental creaking and jittering.  In the middle of the night my pancreas became very angry and demanded booze and when I denied it its desires it persistently nagged me to such a degree that I had to haul myself out of bed to take painkillers, which fortunately took the edge off the situation.  In its astringent state the pancreas tried to agitate the liver into niggling me also but the latter organ is a more kindly and forgiving soul and it fortunately let me be.

Drinking to ward off the inherent sadness and loneliness of the world is not an astute thing to do and eventually it always adversely compounds things but at least little bête noires appear to keep one company.   During a recent counselling session the therapist asked me why I sometimes drink on my own at home.  I replied something along the lines of if you are accompanied by a drink that you are no longer alone, there is more than one presence in the room.   Maybe the second presence is the dreadful Diablo himself, who is only topped as a personal nemesis of mine by the Baby Faced Assassin at the Rharely Peking.   I thought I had finally outfoxed the Assassin last week as I simply ordered curry sauce and chips, thinking that surely such a simple dish must be inoffensive.  How wrong I was; the chips turned out to be like little bits of cardboard and the curry sauce looked like an extra from the cult Irving Yeaworth film The Blob.  As ever, the Baby Faced Assassin won again.

Although my boozing is generally contained, in order to ensure that I suffer the indignities of alcohol retreat on a less frequent basis, I have employed the Aquarius Five Step Process drink reduction plan.  (Incidentally, Chompa Babbee has been undertaking the Bobby Sands waist reduction plan and has eaten virtually nothing for three weeks.)   As part of the Five Step plan you have to set clear, achievable targets to reduce drinking and of course stick to them.  If you fail to meet the targets you can either chide yourself severely or buy a bottle of Tippex and cheat.  I would guess that some of the more desperate cases who are on the plan might even drink the Tippex. 

The literature contained in the plan suggests such things as telling your pub landlord to not serve you after you have had a set amount of drinks but as the Pirate in the Flagon & Gorses is usually as p*ssed as me such a plan is doomed to failure.  It is also suggested that when one is a good boy and meets the targets that a reward or treat is in order but as in my case that would mean a skin full in the Flagon it would be somewhat self-defeating.

One good thing about not being able to sleep last night was that the frenzied activity in my mind at least generated a germ of an idea as to what I was going to write in this nonsensical column this week, as for the first time since I started writing it I had no idea what I was going to bang on about.  I was so devoid of any ideas that I was seriously starting to think that I would produce no column at all; I can already sense my readers thinking that they had wished I hadn’t bothered and given them a week off for good behaviour.  But it is vitally important that I plough on with the column otherwise I will not have the excuse of having a soiree when I reach the fiftieth episode. 

All writers are fearful of a blank piece of paper and most are equally afraid of an empty glass.   Often filling the glass leads to filling the page and in my case that is true to a degree as (as regular readers know) a large slice of this column is sometimes based around the whimsical happenings at the Flagon & Gorses.   In my defence though when I write I am sober, but sometimes hung over, which is state that I often leads to writing productivity. If the Five Point Plan is successful (and I am determined that it will be) it might resultantly destroy the little bit of creativity that I have if I cease to have mornings where I operate in a less than optimum state, which will make it a very pyrrhic victory indeed.

Matters relative to literature could have been better this week.  Firstly, I had the dawning realisation that the book that I have been writing about my pub life in the Flagon is, not to put too fine a point in it, rubbish and it would be better served as being used as toilet paper as opposed to being read.  The fundamental problem is that pub life (and the utterances of the pub’s regular brethren) is by nature repetitious and although us inmates love it, looking in from the outside it can be very boring.  Barroom punters often repeat stories, some of which were not even funny or entertaining in the first place; I am sure that I have certainly been guilty of it on a number of occasions.  Additionally, my heart has not been in the book for some time and consequently I have not dedicated the requisite amount of time to it.  And if you don’t put in the time you won’t earn the dime.  I know that I am going to have to start the book again with more enthusiasm and vigour if I want it to be a worthwhile venture. 

Secondly, the literary agent that my brother, Albino Duxbury, recommended I contact has not got back to me despite me contacting him some three weeks ago.  It transpires that the agent is going through a messy divorce and that he has also acrimoniously split up with his long time business partner and he is basically having a mid-life crisis and nervous breakdown.  He sounds like the perfect literary agent for Lowlife.

The last agent of any description that I had was a pools agent who looked like Charles Manson and given his uncanny likeness to the infamous murderer I distrusted him to such a degree that I packed in the pools and took up the National Lottery.  I am unlikely to win the Lottery now as I no longer buy a ticket but if I did I would not be best pleased about the price rise from £1 to £2 for a ticket, that was announced today.  This price rise is in accordance with the current practice of retailers of anything and everything of putting up goods and services by a ridiculous amount instead of a few mere pence.  If the Pirate follows suit and puts up the beer in the Flagon by a pound a pint the Five Point plan will be superfluous to my requirements as I won’t be able to afford to drink anyway. 

Day one of the Five Point plan, being yesterday, was successful as I met my target of zero alcohol and today I am also on track for sobriety; I am confident tomorrow can be dry as I am looking after my dear son Kenteke in the evening.  On Saturday it is Hugh Queensbury’s 40^th birthday party and I have set myself an upper limit of five pints of beer but if I breach that I can always blame Lowlife’s London correspondent Barty Hook who is travelling up from the Smoke.  You know what they say, when things go wrong if in doubt blame someone else.

© Dominic Horton, October 2013.

Lowlife 37 - Basking in the Basket Glory

Basking in the Basket Glory

Even I concede that the internet can be a wonderful thing.  On Tuesday I purchased a Mega Sonic Cat Repeller, a bargain at £14.99, half the price of the usual RRP.  The Repeller is required as I have recently noticed that next door’s cat is not satisfied with digging up her owner’s lawn but has now progressed onto mine, causing several pot holes.  I could raise the issue with my neighbour but I surmise that there is little she can do about the issue, short of keeping the excavating moggy indoors, which is somewhat unreasonable, and I am keen to maintain our excellent neighbourly relations.  So a quick search on the internet revealed various feline rebuffing products and I decided to not mess about but to go straight for the top of the range, number one best-selling Mega Sonic Cat Repeller. 

Apparently the product works by projecting an infrared beam across the lawn and is alerted when a moggy enters its field whence it fires a small but lethal missile and destroys little kitty on the spot, leaving only its smoking tail resting forlornly on the lawn.   I am of course fantasising.  In actuality the Mega Sonic shoos Tiddles away by emitting a high pitched voice (that is inaudible to the human ear) which terrifyingly asserts (in the voice of Christopher Lee), “you have one second to get off this lawn moggy before the Grim Reaper appears with a scythe (and I have it on good authority that he is in a foul mood today) and you end up in a chow mein in the Rharely Peking.”

Of course the days before the internet were simpler times and one could still find the required information as to how to solve a problem by raising the issue in the pub and people would spout forth their simple housewives’ remedies as how to solve the problem, all of which tended to be poppycock and less use than a comb to cue ball headed Abdul Dave in the Flagon & Gorses.

I used to have a cat living in Codger Mansions but she has long since shed her fury mortal coil.  My brother Codger made it a term of renting his house that I would look after the cat Holly, who I used to call Bloody Holly at 0500 hours as she would nip at my feet while I tried to sleep as she wanted to be fed.   When it was time to take Holly to the vet it was a right game getting her into her cat box unless you caught her unawares and shoehorned her in there before she got spooked.  If I tried the fish in the back of the box tactic to lure the cat in she used to look at me and think, “you can f*ck right off if you think I am falling for that old trick.”  Ironically, when she was on the veterinarian’s table sh*tting herself with fear all of a sudden the dreaded cat box seemed more attractive to her than the Flagon & Gorses does to yours truly. 

Talking of the Flagon Toby-in-Tents horrified me on Sunday when he disclosed to me in the pub that he had recently tipped a whole bottle of ouzo, one of my favourite spirits, down the sink.  Being a former member of Amnesty International I am not in favour of capital punishment but such a heinous act should be punished extremely severely.   This was the first of three alcohol fiascos this week.  On Monday Tesco dutifully delivered my monthly shop to Codger Mansions but instead of including a bottle of the delightful Sicilian lemon based spirit limoncello they instead delivered a bottle of Jeeves Original fruit mixer drink (17.5% ABV), which even mixed with lemonade and ice is ghastly; the drink tasted like a chilled cough mixture shandy.  The third incident in the triumvirate of booze disappointments was me erroneously ordering a bottle of non-alcoholic beer at Villa Park on Tuesday, which was later compounded by the team incompetently being knocked out of the League Cup without so much as a whimper. 

Toby told me about his shameful Greek spirits crime after we had completed our 10k charity run on Sunday morning.  We did well for first time racers so to congratulate ourselves on our efforts we ventured to the Flagon & Gorses at noon for some much needed R&R including the consumption of delicious Portuguese cakes cooked by Tony’s girlfriend, the lovely Samuka Dudlovski.  On arrival we were greeted by the sight of the hard settles in the bar having been completely re-upholstered with soft, cushioned seating, which on the face of it should provide more comfort for the punters.  However, by early evening on Sunday I started to get the numb sensation in my rear that one gets towards the end of a film in the cinema but such numbness never used to prevalent with the hard, wooden settles; mind you I would hazard that this will not be an issue for the vast majority of Flagoners as few will remain in situ in the same spot, uninterrupted, for seven hours.

I enjoyed the days of sobriety leading up to the road race so much last week that at breakfast on Monday morning I resolved to have a pop at it again over the days that followed.  Such delusions of sobriety lasted less than an hour as the Flagon’s own Chilli Willy called me an at early hour to inform me that he will be in Birmingham all day on a course and he requisitioned me for a lunchtime pint or three.  In the words of Al Pacino in The Godfather III, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

In many ways the lunchtime pint with Willy and the Phantom was a rare treat as in these times of austerity I have cut back on such indulgences.  In the period of austerity after the war my dear Grandad Charlie grew all manner of things, as many people did, to supplement his family’s rations and it was a practice he continued for all of his days.  Even though we are in a period of austerity now I have grown nothing except for my overdraft.  I buy my tomatoes from Tesco and take great pleasure in complaining about the price.  Mind you I doubt very much whether anything of any use would grow in the Codger Mansions garden on account of the lack of sunlight, the murky conditions and the proliferation of hungry insects, not to mention the cat sh*t from the aforementioned next door’s moggies.  Even the hardiest of vegetables would have none of it and would quickly sink back down into the largely infertile soil after popping out above the ground and surveying the shabbiness of the surroundings.

Unusually I have had a horticultural highlight this week as I consider myself to have finally won the Furnace Hill hanging basket war with my neighbour Lester Fester, which finally reached a thrilling climax.  Arguably (though I dispute it myself) Fester’s hanging basket has looked more resplendent and colourful than mine throughout the summer months but Fester has now taken his basket down and as mine endures (and still looks illuminating after my gentle and devoted care) I have taken Fester’s actions as an admission of defeat.  In my estimation I am the ultimate winner of the war and I am not hesitating in basking in the basket glory.  Little victories of course make life worthwhile.

If I was a highflyer in my career like Willy Mantitt then I could relate the hanging basket story on the networking circuit but alas I am less of a highflyer than a limbo dancer with house bricks in his pockets. I’d imagine that “networking” is a euphemism for everybody getting drunk on the company’s money and if you do happen to get a good contact you lose the business card anyway through being awash with booze.  And in the unlikely event that your hangover lets you remember the contact’s name the following morning and you look him up and contact him, in the cold light of day you realise that he’s a bumbling fool but you didn’t grasp it at the time because you were sozzled. 

One man who was not a bumbling fool was the 19^th century painter, writer and explorer George Catlin, who made it his business to document the lives and traditions of Native American tribes in the old American west as he thought, correctly, that the tribes and their culture would all but die out.  The other Sunday in the Flagon Gary Sitting Bull tipped me off that there is currently an exhibition of Catlin’s work at Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery, so I toddled off there to have a look and it was highly impressive and entertaining.  One of Catlin’s painting depicts a rites of passage practice of suspending young braves from the ceiling of a tepee by rope, which is secured to the body by pegs dug into the brave’s flesh; the brave hangs in such a state until he passes out and he is then cut down.  I would be less than pleased to partake in such a barbaric and brutal custom so if I were a Native American I would form my own tribe called the Wussies whose rite of passage would be to down a pint of bitter in one go without spilling a drop.  The first rule of the tribe would be that under no circumstances are members allowed to tip bottles of Ouzo down the naffing sink. 

© Dominic Horton, September 2013.

Lowlife 36 - Running on Empty

Running on Empty

I see that Philip Hollobone, the Right Honourable Member of Parliament for Kettering, has called for a ban on Muslim women wearing burkas and other similar head garments in public because it upsets his sensibilities.   Hollobone (who would be better named Hollohead) said that he wants to see the faces of burka wearing women so he can say hello to them when he passes them in the street.  I hope for the sake of all Muslim women that they do not have to suffer the displeasure of having to see the disagreeable Hollobone on their travels.  I wish someone would bung a burka on the MP in question so his unpleasant face is not exposed as he is a singularly ugly individual; he would then be a berk in a burka. 

I am not calling Hollobone a racist but when he had the privilege of studying at Oxford he was, according to Wikipedia, a member of the Monday Club, a far right pressure group which is notable for having promoted a policy of voluntary, or assisted repatriation for non-white immigrants which mirrored the pledge made in the Conservative Party's General Election Manifesto of 1970.   Hollobone might be a bit uppity as he got divorced this year and he would most likely be at his happiest telling Muslim women to remove their burkas or veils fulfilling his role as a special constable. 

I would look like a berk if I had purchased the trousers I tried on this week in a well-known high street store.  I was kindly given some gift vouchers for the store for my birthday so I toddled along there to redeem the vouchers in exchange for a desirable piece of clothing.  I hazarded upon some chinos and was faced with a choice of straight or skinny and being of a certain age I plumped for the straight version but when I tried the trousers on they were so tight fitting that at one point I thought I would have to ask the shop assistant to call the fire brigade to cut me out of the trousers.  All of which begs the question as to how tight the skinny fitting version of the trousers are; they must give a free tub of petroleum jelly with the purchase to assist the wearer to get in and out of the trousers.  And yet I see young men around and about wearing such leg clinging britches and their movements do not seem to be too restricted, even when the chap donning the trouser is of the portly variety. 

I prefer a bit of room for manoeuvre in my attire and I value comfort above being a slave to fashion. It struck me walking up Colmore Row in Birmingham in the drizzle the other day in my plastic mac, sports jacket (which has a tweedish air) and brown brogues that I am slowly morphing into Peter Sallis’s Clegg out of Last of the Summer Wine. There is a fine line between looking distinguished and having the appearance of a stereotypical pensioner and I think I have unconsciously crossed the line into Cleggdom.   Anyway, returning back to trouser talk I prefer to have a little bit of ventilation around my crown jewels and for them not to be confined.

Fortunately I am not confined in my vocabulary due to the magic of the invaluable Thesurus.com and the word of the day on the site today is “fleer”, which means to grin or laugh coarsely or mockingly, which is something that the delectable Carla von Trow-Hell does to me all the time from behind the bar in the Flagon & Gorses.   On Sunday evening she derided me for concluding the evening with half a pint of Thatcher’s Heritage Cider stating that it was a drunk’s trick to finish off with a glass of cider or two.  Little did Carla know that the half of cider was to launch me into a week of dreaded sobriety ahead of Sunday’s 10k “fun” run with Toby-in-Tents.  It’s no coincidence that simply by adding the letter “i” the word run is transformed into the word ruin, which is fitting.  (Conversely, extracting the letter “i” from the word married leaves the appropriate word marred.)  

The process of me drying out this week will be like drying out of the timbers of the Mary Rose and it has been conducted under strict laboratory conditions, which has involved hot baths, cold showers and a particularly poky self-made tomato and chilli soup.  I added braising beef to the soup, which ruined some perfectly good beef and a good soup in one foul swoop (in fact it would have had to be chicken to be a foul swoop, but you get my drift.)

So on Sunday I will be running on empty, booze wise.  The scientists and dieticians will tell you that alcohol is detrimental to sporting performance and while they are undoubtedly right the majority of the time anyone who has experience of amateur sport will tell you that is not the whole story.   Apparently, Fudgkins is a far better golfer when hung over and the slovenly Tim Jameson, who I used to play darts with in the Fairfield, could barely throw an arrow unless he had consumed so much booze that he had to put a beermat on top of his pint so he could remember which one was his, but once Tim reached his optimum booze state he was a magnificent darter.  And I would imagine that many of us will have stories of man of the match performances playing football or five wicket hauls at cricket after waking up in the morning on an unknown sofa in Darlaston with memories of what happened the previous evening slowly fading away like a ship on the horizon.  

My old Sunday league football manager Sweeney used to have a mantra that he subjected his players to that went “drink as much as you like on Saturday night but ensure that you are in bed before midnight”, as he considered that sleep was more important than sobriety to any self-respecting Sunday league footballer. 

When you are not a professional sportsman and life and boozing gets in the way of sporting dedication, the goal posts are moved.  One Christmas Sunday morning circa 1993 the goalposts literally seemed to me to be moving after an unfortunate turn of events.  The Fairfield Drive Christmas dinner party was staged the night before and given that the weather was freezing and a heavy frost was forecast in the morning, I was safe in the knowledge that the game would be postponed due to a frozen pitch, so I was free to imbibe what I wanted.   The party went swimmingly well, despite Herman Trotsky twice collapsing into the Christmas tree during an impromptu after dinner speech. 

On the morning after the dinner party the house looked like a scene from the apocalypse but I dodged tidying up by escaping to football to go through the formality of the game being postponed.  To my horror the ageing referee Ernie Pike turned up and declared that the game was on despite the pitch being harder than the settles in the Flagon & Gorses as, quoting Ernie, “the pitches are hard in the warm weather at the start of the season and games are played then.”  It was at this juncture that I deeply regretted following the aperitif of a skin full of lunchtime pints with a bottle of whisky, shared with El Pistolero whilst cooking the turkey curry for dinner.  We had a decent result, an away game drawn 2-2 and I scored off a corner but I could remember none of this after the game.  If I had been interviewed by Geoff Shreeves for Sky Sports post match and he had asked me my thoughts on the contest I would have had to say, “I’ve absolutely no idea Jeff.  What was the score by the way?”

The ever interesting Drew Monkey knows the score, having had his fingers in a number of pies over the years, including owning canal barges, being an environmental officer, all things brewing and playing in folk and soul bands.   Drew’s folk band are playing on Saturday night as part of the Flagon & Gorses’ annual International Talk like a Pirate Day celebrations, an event which sadly I cannot attend due to the damn run on Sunday morning.  I suppose I could go to the pirate evening on Saturday but it would mean either not drinking (which would be a more torturous experience than being a political prisoner in North Korea) or consuming beer and suffering the consequences on Sunday morning.  Toby-in-Tents suggested that I get blind drunk on the pirate night and get people to sponsor me not for finishing the race but for actually making it to the start line.   On Sunday evening in the Flagon Drew entertained me with stories of near death experiences he had over the years and it is a miracle that he is still alive.   I sincerely hope that I do not have a similar story to tell after the run on Sunday morning.

© Dominic Horton, September 2013. 

Lowlife 35 – Doomsday Delights

Doomsday Delights

I did something today that I have been meaning to do for many a moon and now I have finally got round to doing it I feel like a big weight has been lifted off my shoulders.  And yet the process of becoming unbaptised was so simple.  Unbaptism.org explained that all that I had to do was to sign a simple Unbaptismal Certificate that they provided to me and get my signature witnessed, which the Phantom willingly did.  And that was that.   The website went on to say that if I want to do a proper job I could frame the certificate and hang it on the kitchen wall above the washing machine and/ or serve notice of my unbaptisement on the church that originally made me undergo the baptism ceremony without my consent, which I was of course in no position to give due to the fact that I was a mere baby.   Instead of willingly forcing defenceless babies into being Christians it might be more beneficial to them to bless them with a more practical privilege, such as making them lifelong members of the Camping & Caravanning Club.

It might be the case that my childhood baptism hitherto gave me the protection of god, so now I am relieved of her/ his guardianship I could be in right shtook.   If my ailing car Pat, which has been giving the old death rattle of late, packs up on its next journey then I will know that the almighty is exercising her/ his celestial muscle to express her/ his displeasure at my blasphemous action.  I don’t think god will take such action as I do not believe in the existence of the being of course, which is why I unbaptized myself in the first place.   After the unbaptisement I went straight to hell, well hell on Earth that is, in the form of Primark Birmingham, to obtain some new shirts as my errant washing machine ruined a couple in the week.

Unlike the Frymaster General I did not ruin my shirt on Saturday night by spilling curry down it in the Fluke restaurant, which we retreated to after a day out in the Jewellery Quarter with Chilly Willy, Carla von Trow-Hell, Jolly D, Harry Gout, Toby-in-Tents, Samuka Dudlovski, Jonty Von Rossi, Tom Holliday, Philly the Gent and Desmond Dekka.

The Frymaster has strangely behaved himself every time we have been out of late, which is highly unnerving, but I know through experience that he always leaves his mark.  He stayed at Codger Mansions on Saturday night and on Sunday morning I offered him a bacon sandwich, as a good host should and he answered, “go on then I’m starving as we didn’t eat anything yesterday”, to which I replied, “we went for a curry you buffoon, look, it’s all down your shirt.”  Anyway, the Frymaster must have slept fully clad as when I stripped the bed to fumigate it after he left there was a curry stain on the bed sheet.  And before you query the nature of the stain, I am as sure as I can be that it was curry and not bum gravy.  Jolly D was so lubricated on Saturday that when we entered the restaurant he missed his seat and as a result of gravity he fell to the floor, which is at least better than Sleepy Tom Parker’s usual trick of passing out in his chicken tikka masala. 

Despite too many drinks being consumed on Saturday, Sunday turned out to be a highly pleasant day which encompassed a fabulous family meal, bands and beer at Wassell Grove and the usual Flagon visit.  Sometimes people think that the day after a heavy drinking session (which I will call doomsday) is a living nightmare but it does not have to be.  Usually the only option on doomsday is to start drinking again and if you are in this position you need to take action before 1600 hours, which is The Point of no Return.  

Failure to play the booze card before The Point of no Return leads to a swift decline into a horror filled abyss, which will overwhelm and terrify the patient.  Once you start to drink again on doomsday the alcohol will be introduced to the drink which is already in your system and once old booze and new booze have shook hands and exchanged pleasantries you will start to feel right as rain.  But you can’t rush these things and small sips are the order of the day, it is a slow and steady process.  Trying to force the pace can become counterproductive and can worsen the patient’s condition as opposed to enhancing it.  So be warned.   

I actively enjoy drinking myself back to health on doomsday and such times represent some of my favourite boozing days.  A typical doomsday would see me in the soothing environ of the Flagon & Gorses enjoying a palliative drink with the Pirate or other Flagon dignitaries such as Paul Debilder and Mother Teresa or Francine Jacks.

When people say they are having a dry day on doomsday it fills me with a sense of panic and deep dread, even though I am not in the person’s shoes.  Such drastic and ill-considered action often leads the patient to an interminable day of agonies on the sofa, which to my mind is a waste of a day.  People often take this tack on doomsday through ignorance or lack of experience or, even worse, piousness or guilt but it is without exception a grave mistake.

If one steers the ship on the right course on doomsday and has a gargle to loosen the chest and ward away the lurking devil then it begs the question what does one do on the following day (post-doomsday), or as the Geordie Marcus Bentely would say on Big Brother, “Day 3”?  Stopping drinking suddenly on post-doomsday could pose the same problems (albeit less severe) as coming to an abrupt halt on doomsday itself.  I always a favour a tactical withdrawal on post-doomsday and I ingest a modicum of alcohol to ensure a terror-less state and a night’s sleep of sorts.    

On post-doomsday if I do not drink at all I will almost certainly have a re-occurring nightmare of mine (see Lowlife 21) as soon as I fall asleep, so I need to drink enough alcohol to ensure that does not happen whilst conversely drinking as little as practically possible in order to finally go booze-less the following day.  So drink intake on post-doomsday is a fine balance and failure to get such balance right can lead to either me having nightmares or having to drink again the following day, which is a rocky road to be going down. 

The only low point of doomsday on Sunday was the “special” Szechuan I had from the Rharely Peking Chinese takeaway which was only special because it seemed to consist solely of rice and vegetables, so it lead to me sifting through the dish having a game of hunt the meat.    I finally found a meat like substance which was masquerading as chicken but if the creature it emanated from had ever clucked in its life then I am indeed a Chinaman.  The Baby Faced Assassin got me again.

Willy Mantitt and the Pirate both had doomsdays on Monday after returning respectively from junkets to Berlin and Belgium.  Mantitt decided to face the doomsday horrors head on and inexplicably went dry but the Pirate predictably took the less fraught route of a phased retreat and had a pint in the Flagon where he regaled us with tales of his trip to Belgium, which seemed to consist mostly of him drinking 10% ABV beer.

On Tuesday I took the first steps towards testing my vodka and veggie burger diet idea (which I have named the V&V diet – see Lowlife 34).  Not wanting to rush into things I skipped the veggie burgers and went straight to the vodka.   Vodka and tonics seem to have magical properties.  I had two on Tuesday, as large as would be poured by a Greek barman, and I felt physically and mentally chipper on Wednesday morning or as well as I could be.   My pancreas was either having a long lie in or was unaffected by the VATs.   What’s more the VATs helped me to sleep like a log, which is not usual, with me being a fretful sleeper.  All I need to do now is get onto the veggie burger bit and I’ve cracked it. 

Mind you, I did treat myself to decent vodka, whose name I can’t pronounce or spell as it is all in Russian.  When I switch to Aldi’s own vodka the experiment could well go sour.  I see that Tesco do a vodka in their Everyday range, which basically suggests that it is fine to drink vodka every day, which is a green light if ever I have seen one. The other thing with the VAT situation is that on Tuesday night I had a heavy cold and my nose was streaming like a tap but on Wednesday morning I had a mere snivel.  No wonder the Russians drink Vodka by the gallon.

© Dominic Horton, September 2013.

Lowlife 34 - Not on Your Life Sonny

Not on Your Life Sonny

I do love a walk through the Jewellery Quarter on the way to work in the morning, it’s a beautiful place and it delays the inevitable by a quarter of an hour.  I got off the train one stop early today and strolled through what is to my mind the best part of Birmingham central as it is my birthday, 42 years young but I do not look a day over 50 so things are not too bad.  I don’t know where the year has gone since my 41^st birthday, it must have slipped down the back of the sofa.  The downside is that once I arrive at work the highlight of the working day is over and it is all downhill from there.  The place was particularly alluring this morning and given the September sunshine, the many resplendent hanging baskets and the cries of seagulls it had an almost seaside feel. 

Given the growing residential element to the Jewellery Quarter there are now many tempting and stylish looking cafés (in addition to the hearty greasy spoons) and I always promise myself that I should treat myself to breakfast in one of these establishments before work one morning.  I never have visited one of these café though as I do not rise early enough from my Codger mansions flea pit and I can rarely afford such a luxury anyway. 

Even though like most other industries the jewellery trade has been affected by the enduring recession the Jewellery Quarter still bustles with life and even at an early hour shop owners and Jewellery workers are going about their business. 

It’s a depressing thought stumbling into work in the morning and realising that I am imprisoned there until 1700 hrs, at which time I flee on the dot.  It always amazes me that I am usually the only person in the department that actually leaves on time as all my other colleagues mostly stay later like masochists, suckers for punishment.  Some of them might feel like they will be rewarded in heaven but I am not sure what the Mexy’s excuse is as the Mexicans seem too obsessed with hell and death to pay any attention to anything as fanciful as heaven.   And the Phantom is from Grimsby and it is well known in religious circles that persons from that town are refused entry into the heavenly after world. 

The singer Cher does not seem like she is ready to go anywhere near the heavenly after world as judging by the way she looks she thinks that she is still in her 20’s.  Cher has just announced that she is to start touring again at the age of 67 and I suppose that is no mean feat for a pensioner, though Mick Jagger and his aged Stones cronies have barely stopped touring for years.  It is Cher tastelessness that the Californian born singer is trying to make herself look a third of her age and her blonde hair (or wig) with red streaks gives her the appearance of a raspberry ripple ice cream.  I am not suggesting that Cher should dress like Nora Batty out of Last of the Summer Wine but a modicum of taste with regards to her age would not go amiss.   Cher did a farewell worldwide tour eleven years ago so all of the punters involved probably feel a bit miffed.  Mind you all of Cher’s plastic surgery makes her look like she is back from the dead so that could be seen as justification for having a resurrection tour.   Am I going to one of her shows?  Not on your life Sonny. 

One sixty something who does not try to look younger than his years is the Pirate, the gregarious landlord of the Flagon & Gorses and in fact contrary to Cher, the Pirate appears more advanced in years than his age.  Like Cher the Pirate is also going on tour, hot trotting to Belgium for a beer junket next weekend.   Last weekend I witnessed the unusual sight of the Pirate sitting in the bar on Saturday night and he seemed relatively sober to boot, in other words he was more sober than me.  It transpired that he had entrusted himself to serve an Indian meal to revellers in the back room.  Once he had stirred the pot in the kitchen he sat down to a pint and given that he was effectively undertaking the dual tasks of serving the curry and drinking beer it could be said that he was balti tasking.

The Pirate now seems to want to exercise editorial control over Lowlife and dictate what does and what does not appear in the column.  Being slow on the uptake, it has taken the Pirate nine months and 33 episodes of Lowlife to realise that I am likely to write about his disclosures to me if they are of sufficient interest.   He must have taken advice on the matter as he has implored me numerous times in the last week or so to not publish a particular comment that he has made.  Conversely, the Pirate has asked me to publicise the pub’s annual International Talk like a Pirate Day, which this year is on Saturday 21^st September; it is unclear what fee I will be paid for this advertisement but is unlikely to be sufficient to even purchase a second hand copy of Treasure Island.

Unlike the pirates in Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic I will not be drinking any rum this evening, despite it being my birthday.  It’s supposed to be a non-drinking day, so that feeling of emptiness will descend at booze o’clock.  I bought some Chinese herbal tea to drink the other week as a booze substitute but it tastes filthy and I don’t know how the Chinese put up with it; they obviously don’t sell PG Tips in the Orient.  I would rather drink smooth pour nitrokeg Mild than Chinese green tea and that’s saying something.  Mind you, I’ve found that oddly the worse the mild the better it mixes in a black and tan, which is one of those puzzlers that no one will ever work out. 

Vodka, and not rum, is the drink I propose to use for my revolutionary vodka and veggie burger diet (the V & V diet), an idea that I hatched after a chance meeting with a bookmark.   The bookmark was kindly supplied to me with compliments by The Book Depository, an excellent firm who peddle second hand books and despatch them worldwide, even to Codger Mansions.  You will see from the photograph above of the bookmark [email and papers versions of this column only – Ed] that there are only 73 calories in a regular veggie burger, whereas there are 279 and 359 calories in a regular ham burger and cheese burger respectively.   The new diet fad appears to be the 5:2 diet whereby you eat normally five days a week and only consume 600 calories two days a week.   600 calories means that one can eat five veggies burgers (one for breakfast, two for lunch, one for tea and one after the pub) and still have enough calories left to imbibe four single vodka and slim line tonics.   The idea sounds like a winner to me and if I publish a book on the matter it could make me more money than the Half Pint to Heaven book (see Lowlife 33).   Unless anyone has any better ideas, the book could be entitled Veggie Burger for Tea with a Large VAT!

Given my newly found half pint habit Jolly D has playfully christened me with the nickname HP, which means I suppose that when I am cheekily verbally abusing the Pirate it will henceforth be known as HP sauce. 

***** STOP PRESS *****

Flagon Theft, the Pirate Bereft

Just as Lowlife was going to press I heard news of a break in at the Flagon & Gorses whereby a thief broke into the pub in the dead of the night in the early hours of Thursday morning, smashing a window in the bar to gain entry.  It sounds like Hazel O’Connor has been at it again.  I was informed by Ung Pirat that the thief stole the charity bottle, to which I replied, “Just the bottle? You think that he would have stolen the money contained in the bottle as well.” 

So just as the interior renovations in the Flagon are complete the Pirate now finds himself having to replace a large window and find a new charity bottle.  Let us just hope that the thief wounded himself in the act of breaking the window to gain entry.  Stealing charity money means the thief is a genuine lowlife and it makes one wonder whether it was someone who has attended the pub and knew that the bottle was there.   The bar staff at the Flagon now need to be on the lookout for a punter covered in bandages who pays for a pint entirely with small change. 

Diet Claims Holds No Weight

After investigating my veggie burger and vodka diet claims, minutes before this column was to be published my researcher hastily alerted me to inaccuracies in its content.  Anxious to avoid litigation, publication was suspended so I can clarify the position with regards to the calories contained in a veggie burger.  It transpires that there are approximately 160 and not 73 calories in the foodstuff, roughly 80 calories in the burger and 80 in the bap.  In my defence the picture of the veggie burger on the bookmark does include a bap but in hindsight it appears that a “1” has been erroneously omitted from the quoted figure of 73 (i.e. I am guessing it should read 173.)    Even so, five veggie burgers and four slimline VATs only accounts for 1212 calories, less than half of a man’s recommended daily calorie intake of 2,500, so all in all the V & V diet could still be used to reduce the Pirate’s burgeoning beer belly.

© Dominic Horton, September 2013.