Silly Soapy

While sitting at my desk this morning, a bright yellow Volkswagen decorated with personified blueberries and bearing the legend . . .SILLY SOAPY, LADY CLOWN . . .parked outside my window. A very glamorous and decidedly unsilly woman continued to bend over in front of me and pluck her child out of the back seat. Since when did clowns, male or female, have a fantastic ass and great legs? The world of slap-stick has finally gone mad.
I was meant to be on the wagon today. I think I will wait until the first of November
.A year ago today, we acquired a lovely five month old bitch from the dog rescue centre. One of my main selling points to my wife was that I would take her to training classes as soon as possible. Tonight was our first class. It was exhausting. Arrived home two hours later had a quick cup of tea and off down the-worst-pub. It was empty apart from O’Donnell, John and Tony Blackburn at the smoking-table and about twenty staff all sipping drinks very slowly. Tony Blackburn had had a few and, as ever, was the expert on every subject that he or the other two brought up. I was stone cold sober at half past nine when the land-lady, who has three weeks left in the job, told us that last orders would be at nine forty due to a staff meeting! “We are all going to have a chat then a lot of drinks.” Who is this pub meant to be open for???
On a plus side . . . I was worrying that I only had the foreshortened evening ahead and tomorrow night until I am on the wagon when my mobile vibrated in my pocket. It was Walt, my saviour; did I fancy a drink in the good-pub on Wednesday night? So, the wagon on Thursday it is, indeed. And that’s the way it is.

Her PVC Skirt

Far too hung-over to go to Mass. Waved my wife and kids off on their way to salvation while I tried to find a position for my aching head. A hot bath didn’t work. A fry-up didn’t work. So I thought I would try the going-back-to-bed-for-half-an-hour trick. Just as I was drifting off to sleep I remembered I had promised my family a roast-dinner. So, twenty minutes later I was having a particularly unpleasant experience in Morrison’s supermarket. Why don’t people shop in the week? Why don’t fat people have their very own fat shops with extra wide aisles? Why didn’t three spotty little fuck-wits know where the nut roast was? And why wasn’t the ten items or less checkout open? Arrived back home a very bad-tempered, sweaty father.
I knew there was only one cure. So, one hour later, after not much persuasion, we were all sitting in the-worst-pub.They stayed with me for two pints, which improved my mood and cured my hangover. After they left me (apparently, I had bought a chicken that was far too big and would take three days to cook) I squeezed in between Wallace and Liam at the smoking-table. Panic Attack, Ringo and Wilson were also there. As they were all engrossed in the Leicester v Cardiff rugby match on the screen there wasn’t much conversation, apart from some rather well informed and acute observations on the new bar-maids tight pvc skirt and the plunging neck line of her blouse. Anyway, two more drinks later, Wilson and Liam were on such good form that I laughed so instantaneously that I sprayed beer all over the floor.
The roast dinner was a success and for the first time in a long time I was in bed at eight o clock.

Celtic Darkness

I wish I could say that it caught me by surprise, I wish I could say that she walked in through the bathroom window like a dark unexpected guest, I wish I could say that I was driving well within the limits on a slow and easy motorway and didn't see the HGV cross the carriageway before it snuffed out all that was well and good within my ford mondeo. Walt has moaned at me for years. "Oh please don't start moaning already . . .we're still in August." But as soon as we pass the sun in the third month of June, the inevitable nightmare is drawing in. And tonight, finally, the clocks go back. Of-course we don't technically enter the Celtic period of darkness until Halloween has been and gone. But, as ever, and as ever since I reached the age of reason, I haven't got a fucking clue how I will get through the next eight weeks. I heard a lyric today which I think went something like this . . .pray for the people inside your head, for they will be there when you are dead. . . Beautiful. November is the month of souls.

DRIP-FED BETRAYAL

I'm not a great fan of theatrical asides . . .but . . . thank you for your emails, for there have been many. No, I haven't died, I have been away. Okay, not as long as all that, but sometimes the dark clouds of an unwritten sub-plot take away the will to be. A gradual, yet persistant, drip-fed betrayal, can, when the dose is becoming toxic, make a man lose self-belief and the abilty to free his expression. Well, I wish I could free my expression tonight, but my heart is heavy and it all seems slightly static.
Anyway, walked into the-worst-pub and once again had to traverse the north face of the bar to track down a member of the bar staff. Walked up to the smoking-table and joined Wilson, Talk-a-lot, Cool Hand, Cool Hands mate and the guy who drinks at lunch time. Talk-a-lot is telling all who will listen of the departure of his wife and kids and dear God it is the saddest tale there is to tell.
When I was away I was astounded that a group of random drinking parters from the worst pub in the fecking world were with me to the centre of the centre of me. As a stranger reminded me . . .Who wrote to me here . .Your drinking partners are friends. . . Real friends.

Eastern Rite Mystic

Walked into a busy worst-pub to find the bar without any barstaff behind it again. i walked to the left hand side of the bar hoping to spy someone on the vertical but it was still empty. I then went down to the wash-up area and found northernbeardytwats ex girlfriend hiding doing nothing. And do you know something . . .she was really pissed off that I'd come to find her. I joined Wilson at the smoking-table, who was drunk and cuddly and lovely talking of his weekend away. Then, just after he left, Albert Camus slammed his whisky upon the table and said " we must talk." oh, and we talked, we talked like only people who are free from restraint through the love of God can talk. Eastern Rite to Western Rite, sharing the mystical qaulities of our churches, the mystical qualities of being a sinner and the mystical qualities of being alive we talked and we talked and we talked. Praise be to the Father and peace to His people on earth. To find a pub prophet will always make my heart sing.

Multi-Layer Marketing

I was saved today. I was an inch away from a life in multi-layer-marketing. I was going to be the "Betterclean" man, dropping catalogues through letterboxes, then picking them back up again, laden with orders two days later. My wife said I only wanted to do it because I thought the doors were going to be opened by a selection of 'readers-wives' in fluffy high-heels and see-through lingerie. I obviously lied and denied that the thought had ever entered my head. "Do you want to come in while I fill out my order? Oh, you poor Betterclean man, you're soaking! Why don't you take your clothes off and sit by the fire . . .etc etc". Anyway, I'm driving to Oxford on saturday to give two hundred catalogues back to my upliner along with the chance of seeing Nora from Northampton's stocking-tops through her flimsy lace lingerie. Such is life.

Two Pints

I joined Wallace and Albert Camus at the smoking-table. We were the only punters in the pub. They were on their seventh hour of drinking, and that, coupled with their own individual heavy accents meant that I spent two pints worth just nodding and smiling a lot in their general direction.

Are Greg and Martin gay?

The-worst-pub is in the most critical downward spiral I have seen her go through since I first walked through the doors and had the stand-off with that awful horsey barmaid who wouldn't say "please" and I wouldn't hand over my money until she did, all those years ago.
Some night's there really aren't many more drinkers than the ones I mention. I suppose Greg and Martin are always in (Liam thinks that they are gay beacause they go fishing together!!!) but they tend to stay on their own. There is a clique of ex-barstaff who sit over the other side of the room and keep themselves to themselves.
It is always cold and the food complaints are reaching comical proportions.
And somebody is going to buy it.