Do You Wanna New Pair Of Shoes?

Was in a JD Wetherspoons in St Albans yesterday, for the life of me I cannot remember the name of the place, drinking a glass of Shiraz and composing myself after a difficult day at work. No sooner had I sat down when a mother, haggard and with the expression that had been battered into submission, sat within listening distance. Her daughter, who was no more than sixteen sat opposite her, insolent and wearing the current uniform for hip middle class English white girls, black tights under cut back denim shorts with worker’s boots without the laces and a choice of any top from Primark. The daughter, soon introduced as Emma, sucked noisily on a coke, rattling the ice cubes around as they began a debate with only one likely winner.

It appeared that Emma had recently started dating a boy called Charlie and was insisting that they knew everything there was to know about each other, judging by Emma’s obtuseness that was probably not a lot. Emma insisted that Charlie was to stay the night on Saturday because they were going to a party and there was no way of him getting home, I presumed he lived in the Outer Hebrides. Her mother then meekly responded with ‘well what about Charlie’s parent’s?’ Yeah that’s right! What about Charlie’s parents! Emma continued to slurp at her coke then astounded me by announcing that she ‘was old enough to have a boy staying over in her room and anyway he was nice and polite and very mature for his age and wouldn’t do anything.’ Little slut! So he’s gonna stay in your bed all night harbouring an almighty erection and he’s gonna be a good boy? Yeah right. Emma persisted though, ‘Mum, I’m not a slag (yes you are), he is gonna stay over and that’s final’, and that was final because mum responded with ‘come on, finish up your drink and we’ll go and buy you a pair of shoes.’ Emma even had the cheek to ask her mum ‘how much money’ did she have to spend on shoes! As I said, she was barely sixteen.

It then occurred to me that Emma’s mother is representative of a generation that has turned itself into an army of servants and secretaries for our children. It’s disturbing. There are so many appointments and birthdays and other special occasions and there are the favourite foods and Jesus there are the sleepovers and the strops and the TV reality shows and not forgetting the clinical obsession with image and cyber persona and is it me or is there an incredible need for girls, from when they reach puberty, to dress like prostitutes at any available given moment?

With coke slurped to completion Emma left first, with mum picking up all their shopping bags, following slavishly behind.

Smartly Dressed & Thoroughly Drunk

There’s a certain type of drunk that frequents J D Wetherspoon pubs that will always be smartly dressed regardless of their state of inebriation, the attire would be more suited to a funeral. I first spotted Greyman in the Bright Helm in Brighton several weeks ago working his way through several pints of Stella. What first struck me about Greyman was that his suit was designed for a considerably larger man, maybe he had lost lots of weight but he was able to fidget within the suit without causing movement in the material. The navy blue pin stripped suit served two purposes, firstly the stiffness of the cloth prevented his skeleton from falling apart, and secondly the style desperately helped him to maintain his dignity. His blood appeared to have been transfused decades ago and replaced with neat alcohol, his liver having already been pickled and his lungs must have already taken on the appearance of two cockroaches, the nicotine streaked from his lips to an earlobe.

Greyman sat there opposite me dying, legs crossed, cancerous hands resting on his knees and caught in deep contemplation. The waddle covering his Adam’s apple reminded me of Christmas and bobbled for no apparent reason, he had stopped drinking. He continued to stare blankly ahead as if he could see in to a grim future and maybe that’s precisely what the problem was, Greyman appeared to know that his time was limited, months or possibly weeks and he was preparing his body, embalming, reflecting on what he wasn’t leaving behind.

When Will He Explode?

Visited The Post & Telegraph in Brighton today for the first time in months, and it’s changed. Where have all the regular drunks gone? I failed to recognise any of the new recruits, I checked my diary and it had been nearly three months, liver failure caught up with them I’d expect, never mind, I’ll have to spend some time getting to know them.

Sipping Diet Pepsi I noticed that there was some kind of celebration taking place to my right involving a couple of Jamaican families, probably a birthday of an elderly relative, perhaps it was a wedding because some were wearing clothes usually reserved for church. Then again it could have been a death though by the way one guy was eating, remorse for his dead relative was the least of his concerns, eating food was his primary and only focus.

I had a good view of the tables, the guy in the blue patterned shirt and lilac Bermuda shorts and 36dd breasts was ripping apart a 16oz steak with his fingers, hello knife and fork where are you? His cheeks where stuffed to capacity but still the fries were being forced through whilst nibbling, no nibbling is the wrong word, shredding corn from the cob with his teeth. This guy was hungry, very hungry. His appetite could not be satisfied with his own platter of food. He soon started on his grandmother’s leftovers, a half-eaten burger, followed by a bowl of cheesy nachos left by a disinterested child, there was also a half-eaten lasagne and the left over batter from a deep-fried cod. His cheeks were so stuffed I could see tiny pockets being stretched out near his temples to make way for more food, this guy was ravenous. To finish off he surveyed the carnage on the tables, spotted a paper pot of mayonnaise before scooping out the cream with his forefinger. I felt I could not eat for several days. One almighty belch later, the animal had completed his feed, but still had enough time to study the menu, obviously planning his next feed for later that evening.

Massive Hernia

For anyone familiar with the layout of a Wetherspoons, they are usually pretty much the same, you’ll know that the lavatories tend to be situated miles away. I’m not suggesting we all piss in several pint glasses in the middle of the bar but the journey does tend to be up several flights of stairs then along a couple of dark corridors, this journey is made worse if you are quite pissed, or, worst case scenario, you have a medical condition.

The other day I sat opposite a Wetherspoons drunk sporting the thickest moustache ever, at first I thought this grey black strip of Velcro could be fake, it seemed to keep both cheeks together and prevent his face from falling apart like a badly packed doner kebab. Then is if by magic I joined his world, I could see everything in slow motion, his world. He was so pissed he lifted an empty pint glass to his lips, left it there for an eternity before realising it was empty.

He then made the first of three unsuccessful attempts to stand, each time thumping straight back onto his arse. On the fourth attempt he stood and miraculously held his balance only to display what could only have been a gigantic hernia, for good effect he patted it to ensure it was still there, satisfied that it was he twisted and then by instinct alone, made a steady but wobbly ascent towards the lavatories.

After twenty minutes the drunk returned, hernia intact and sporting several damp spots on his light denim jeans. He seemed to contemplate whether to make an attempt to sit, but decided against it and continued to stand as he fumbled in his pocket. It wasn’t long before he conjured up the familiar sight of Cutter’s Choice. How he managed to capture the few remaining specs of tobacco onto a trembling Rizzla paper is unfathomable. He was so pissed he managed to roll his smoke without moistening the gummed edge of the paper, but satisfied with his work he managed to find his mouth. With cigarette in position, he gobbed on his fingers before smoothing down his moustache then patted his hernia for a final time before stumbling out.

Texan Cowboy

Another lunchtime in The Post & Telegraph earlier today and the sighting of a Texan cowboy, I would say fairly rare, even for a liberal & cosmopolitan area like Brighton. He bludgeoned his way through the front doors as if they were wild west saloon bar swing doors then stood there amazed, as if thinking ‘fuck me, this looks like a J D Wetherspoons pub’, was he expecting a Mexican cantina? Or maybe disappointed there was no Mongo-type character punching the lights out of a horse in Blazing Saddles. Not sure what was going through his brain, but he shifted his weight on one leg and readjusted his black leather Stetson, cupped his brow and stared at the bar as if having just spotted a distant desert oasis.

He could have been running, as he was sopping wet, the sweat from his pits had not only dripped through his shirt but had penetrated his jacket, a jacket designed for a much smaller man. The Texan Cowboy then turned and focused on me, however I was not prepared to get into a conversation with a lunatic who wore a copper sheriff’s badge on his lapel with ‘boyz’ stamped across the star. As he strolled towards me I quickly picked up an imaginary call from Michael on my Iphone and waited for him to brush by, thankfully there was no sign of a six-shooter in a holster but the rattle of his metal spurs was unsettling. He sat down looking around imperiously as if expecting a bottle of red eye and a shot glass to land on his table, however I wasn’t about to be the one to break the bad news to him that this would never happen so I zipped up my rucksack, said goodbye to a patient Michael and left before hell breaking loose.

Wine Words - Load Of Old Bollocks!

Was in a bar yesterday (12 May) to meet someone who was notoriously late for appointments therefore had a good half an hour to kill. I’ve never known her to be on time for me in over ten years so to kill this time I sat down with Carlsberg for some company. Bored, I was drawn to the utter drivel scribbled on the chalkboards.

The red wine, I think a Shiraz, had the character of cherries, Jesus, I never knew that cherries had a character. It’s like saying I once knew several cherries, one was rotten to the pip, the other was cynical, whilst the other was honest and reliable, and that I once knew a fleshy cherry, she was a bit of a tease, used to drive me mental on a bad day, madness!
Further down the chalkboard, a red Zinfandel was described as having a rusty red colour, which I can cope with, a fruity bouquet, well that’s beginning to push it for me, but when the landlord tries to convince me that this £8.99 (not cheap) bottle of red has a slightly herbaceous undercurrent, I begin to think “what the fuck?” (Or, I begin to think, bouquet of Garni floating in a glass of red wine).

Even further down the chalkboard was a red Merlot at £12.99, which apparently was pleasantly fruity and which was reminiscent of raspberries, yeah sure, I can imagine necking back the wine, then suddenly pausing, head straight back, and reminiscing about over-ripe raspberries, no, I don’t think so.

Barely legible but squeezed in at the bottom of the chalkboard was a Pinot Noir (£13.99) which apparently was delicate on the nose! How can that honestly be? It’s all to do with wine snobbery and having a “wine of the month”, isn’t that so very fucking nice for the wine. It reminded me of a factory in Edmonton, North London that used to proudly display, on the side of its warehouse, a “veneer of the month,” so ok lets drive straight off the A406 and buy several sheets of veneer and re-panel the living room! Cheap marketing techniques designed to fool the mass, ridiculous!

Best Christmas Lunch Bust Up Ever!

My favourite time on Christmas Day (25 Dec) is when I steal an hour in the local. This always follows the bratish mayhem involving parcels being ripped apart, where howls of exaggerated excitement pierce my eardrums and before hurriedly prepared festive food is torpedoed on to a lush table.

Standing by the bar and working through a second Carlsberg it appears the landlord has organised a couple of sittings today, because it’s barely 1pm and some families are staring glumly into pudding and custard bowls thinking is that it? I’m instantly drawn however to developments on a table nearby. The son-in-law has just stuffed his belly as he sits back and in true northern style unbuttons his trouser tops, pats his potbelly and swirls his brandy. His wife makes stifled conversation with her mother, just polite chat about the food and the treats on the box later. The mother is around 70, quite robust and fearsome. The bill arrives and the son-in-law appears shocked. The mother offers £20 as a contribution. The daughter looks startled however, says nothing, but cuts a glance at her husband, interpreted as: “don’t you fucking dare take £20 off my poor mother, my poor mother who has given us so much over the years, so many generous gifts, who has also bailed you out when you screwed up your business, don’t you dare take that £20 you tight fucking bastard.” The son-in-law looks at the note for a full 22 seconds before grabbing it and jumping to the bar to settle the bill.

At this stage I was desperate for a piss but held back, I needed to witness the conclusion to this real life drama. On his return he dropped into his seat, content with the generous discount on the bill, and oblivious to what was about to follow. The mother-in-law stood, twisted away and started to zip up her coat. The wife then turned on her grinning husband, spat an evil snarl at him, called him a cunt whilst stressing the “t” for several seconds before grabbing a fork and stabbing his arm. This was gripping stuff. The wife quickly followed her mother out of the pub leaving behind an embarrassed and now sober husband nursing a sore arm!