Thursday, August 31, 2006

Wilson

"Here is the man who will prove my point" said a high spirited Wilson as I approached the smoking table. "Have a couple of sips my son, make yourself a fag and then you are going to make my evening." I duly did as I was told. Liam, Ian, Panic Attack and My Friend looked on with a mild curiosity tinged with a boredom of Wilson's four-pint high. "Right, are you ready my son?" I nodded while slugging back my beer. "Here we go gentlemen . . . Who, my son, in your opinion, was the greatest novelist of the twentieth century?" "Well their could be many . . ." I half finished. "No need to rush, my son," said Wilson. "Think about it, which novelist changed everybody elses style forever?" His forehead was perspiring slightly and his eyes bored into mine. "Hemingway?" I presumed. "Nooooooooooooooooooo," he protested, his small hand slamming down upon the smoking-table. "Come on my son. Think! This writer had a famous court case." 'Oh Thank God' I thought, 'I know the answer.' He had loosened his tie and had moved his stool closer to me so that his knee was touching my thigh. I could feel the heat from his body against mine. I addressed the table. "Lawrence," I proclaimed. There was a pause. Ian snorted, Liam looked away and My Friend said he had to go home and turn his casserole off. "You ain't going anywhere until this is decided," he said to My Friend. My Friend told him that he didn't give a fuck, but he stayed anyway. "Alright my son, our third and final chance," said Wilson, his sweaty hand was now on my clenched fist for support. "This same man wrote a novel that none of these cabbages believe was a novel. They all think it was just a film. Who wrote 'The Day of the Jackal?' "Perhaps because of the half bottle of red I'd drank before I came out and because I had emptied both my pint glass and the large scotch and water chaser in seven minutes . . . I bent my right knee so that I was holding my right foot against my right buttock and hopped up and down on the spot, saying 'fomidable' and 'permiable' in my worst French accent. When I had finshed this charade, Wilson, in a gesture of triumph, pulled me towards him and kissed my lips. "And the answer my son?" "To what question?" I replied. "Don't be a cunt, eh? . . .who wrote The Day of The Jackal?

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Tuesday, August 29, 2006

The Voice Of Reason

Walked into the-worst-pub far later than usual, and, to my relief, found The Voice of Reason on his first pint and large scotch chaser. Sara was at the smoking-table with George and the plumber who wants to be an actor. A group of telesales twentysomethings were drinking something called "cheeky vimto" and getting touchy-gropey with each other. Meanwhile, The Voice of Reason and myself jumped from Nabokov to Vietnam, took in the heady sights of The Holy day of the beheading of John the Baptist and finished up on movie quotes. When he left I sidled over to Liam and John along the bar. Unfortunately, I hadn't seen George walking towards them at the same time. I was going to stay for another but that boy really put me off my beer. His stream of vitriol was an inch from my nose. Dear God man - You are rotton from the inside out - your breath reeks. Go home and brush your teeth you stinky fuck-wit!

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Monday, August 28, 2006

Mr Titfer

I have run out of slim-line filter tips and I'm having to use my emergency supply of fat ones that make me cough. It's only a quater past nine and kerry and the kids are all asleep. Listening to a radio programme about owl monkeys on radio four. And I suddenly feel very alone.
Earlier I stood with Mr Titfer at the bar and talked of nothing but everything while he sipped his pint. The twins were at the smoking table, so was Panic attack and Wilson, but I enjoyed being in the slow lane that is Mr Titfer's sole domain. Two years earlier he sidled up to me and said ...you know that blond fat bird I do? Yes...I said. Here have a look at this...he said. He shoved a mobile phone under my nose and showed me a video clip of them both in all their splendour. Since then, I have seen all of Mr Titfers conquests on video. I have stood at the bar and been introduced to them and I have said ...Hi, nice to meet you.. thinking...was that the one with the fist or the cucumber?...I still get confused. However, he has currently added Sara to his list...She aint as dirty as she looks... He said, as she walked towards us, approaching the bar and, once installed there, talked about her new flat all night.

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An Irish Trinity

The smoking-table was empty and I leaned against it, nursing my pint, watching the golf on Sky and the two Bank holiday drinkers underneith the screen with their justbackoffholiday tans and their two sizes too small g-strings riding above their size sixteen jeans, buying wine by the bottle for five pound twenty and laughing like trains. When i went up for my second, northern beardy twat pretended not to see me and carried on doing something with wine bottles! That boy will do anything to avoid pulling a pint. The regular sunday crowd were in and sitting down to my right. Wilson was fed up with being on call, I was given some freshly dug spuds off the twins, O'Connor sat his pint at my table and we talked of sultanas, O' Donnell joined us, thus making a trinity, and we asked of each other "are you well?" for what seemed like an age. And then O'Connor and O'Donnell talked of bulk buying washing powder and I knew that my third pint was to be my last.

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Potters Funeral

The funeral caught me by surprise. It was so desperately sad to see people I know and love grieving. His son, barely old enough to vote, carrying his daddies wasted bones in a box on his young shoulders.
As we shuffled out amongst the mourners, edging between the pews of this ancient church, I made a mental note that perhaps my one and only suit isn't entirely appropriate for funerals...summer-green really isn't the colour of mourning.
After the hearse had creaked down the hill we popped into the Bell Inn and sat surrounded by good friends from a bygone age sipping lemonde and I wished that I hadn't left my Golden Virginia in the car.

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My Co-op

Met Andy down the good pub at seven and had a lovely three pints in a proper pub. The barstaff are always attentive and know what you want to drink before you ask. He asked why I didn't see Walt much anymore. In-fact, the Asian woman in the Co-op asked the same question. And the Answer...well, you'd better ask Walt. John, who is the best barman in town told me that he is giving up the pub-trade because of the unsociable hours. It's like Wayne Rooney giving up football so that he can go shopping on a saturday afternoon! Back to the worst pub on the way home, and...it was lovely. The northern beardy twat had just finished his shift and we were left with the good guys. And it was quiz night. Funeral tomorrow.

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The Worst Pub

August 21st 2006 It's six- thirty in the evening and time for a pick-me-up glass of red and off to the worst pub for a pint. Please don't get me wrong, the drinkers, on the whole are great. It's just the pub! The tables can be filthy, the staff see the customers as a pain in the arse. I think they are trained to see a customer, never make eye contact and walk away. There is a constant stream of food being bought back to the bar with a complaint. Last night, I was invited by a total stranger to insert my finger into his steak and ale pie...It was frozen. As i was walking around the corner, I saw the chef from the night before giggling and swaying like a fool. Fat and stupid is no way to go through life young lady. Two pints and two halves later at the smoking table. Ian had had a funny pill, and, unusually for him, he made me laugh three times within my first pint. The man I don't really know was talking to two subcontractors who none of us really knew. All we did know was that they were from up north and had been drinking since half one. Panic Attack was in his cups and musing on his own mortality. I couldn't resist telling him that I was off to bury a friend on thursday who died at fifty-four. "Diagnosed and dead within twelve weeks." I said. "Oh fuck!" He said. Four small points to add: 1. I had to walk around the bar to the washing up area to order my second pint. 2. Christmas posters are up. 3. My favorite barman has been fined twelve hundred pounds for driving home to Eastern Europe and back...Maybe he should have told them about the puppy dog under his wifes coat. 4. Much too much talk about ky jelly!

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