On cue the WhatsApp message pinged confirming that my mate would be late for our planned drinking session. A legitimate delay, but nevertheless characteristic. Since I had cadged a lift to our rendezvous point, I thought it only fit and proper that I take refuge in the pub and await his arrival.
Hopping out of the car the freezing wind blasted against my face like a soaking beach towel and the rain made me squint. Sprinting to the drinking den I felt somewhat uneasy. The chain is owned by a man I detest for several valid reasons ─ not necessarily the fact that he looks like an aged clown with a state of continual surprise on his supercilious face ─ and in deciding to write about my ensuing social experiment I thought it prudent not to advertise the company to which I will simply refer as “Climateforks.”
Reassuring myself that I was principally there to aid the local economy and partially support the wages of the hardworking staff, the fact that a pint was £3.29 never crossed my mind. Meandering around the haphazardly parked mobility scooters and sweeping through the clouds of cigarette smoke as I made a beeline for the entrance, I reflected upon the inclusiveness of all manner of conventions that complemented the art of getting absolutely shit-faced.
A draught pint of Corona premium lager was swiftly and expertly supplied by an attentive member of the bar staff, topped off with a wedge of lime carefully attached to the side of the glass reminiscent of an indicator on a classic Morris Minor. So unnecessary and redundant, but what the hell! I was out, out!
Sitting on my own, the hubbub of this den of iniquity was humming, yet with careful directed concentration it was pretty easy to pick up on individual conversations. As a fully-fledged post-graduate researcher from one of the leading British Universities I was wholly satisfied that this fieldwork was scientifically sound and should not, under any circumstances, be confused with voyeurism or being fucking nosy.
“Maybe we should go clubbing?” Fuck me! He was old enough to be my dad and the recipient of his dulcet drivel was around my daughter’s age! Was this a sign of incredible confidence with the knowledge that he had a chopper shaped like an Olympic sized two-berth canoe, or had he spent over twenty quid on alcohol already? Before I could decide, my attention was diverted to a table of four blokes. One incumbent suddenly stood up and shouted, “Oi!” Then took a swig of his drink, pointed a menacing finger at the geezer opposite, and continued, “We’ve had this conversation before!” A fight! Fucking hell this place was more entertaining than I could ever have anticipated, and I had only taken a few gulps of my initial glass of nectar! And then as quickly as it had ignited it faded like a Notts County promotion push. How disappointing!
Edging ever so discreetly towards another table and repositioning my pint so I blended effortlessly into the ambiance, a new conversation gripped me. “Johnson! He’s a fat fuck! Partied whilst we were imprisoned indoors!” Resisting the urge to heartily agree and applaud loudly I quickly reminded myself that an impromptu intervention by a trained sociologist (like me) could disrupt and contaminate this delicious dialogue. “He’s doing his best,” came the limp response. Proximate nodding heads confirmed that it was time for me to relocate.
As I waited for another beer at the bar the atmosphere was penetrated by a personal disclosure of epic medical proportions, “Yeah, my gall bladder is playing up again. It’s not good mood music Mike.” I had clearly misunderstood this cathedral of conversation. Inhibitions discarded with diehard determination, or was this bloke’s internal organ able to perform a harmonica routine?
Slipping seamlessly and undetected to another wing of this temple of temptation I passed a moving reunion, “How are you doing Wayne?” Followed by the sincere reflection, “Fine you cunt!”
I had to pinch myself (metaphorically as I didn’t want to bring any attention to myself by feigning self-harm) as no sooner had I sat down a magical moment engulfed me. “I’ve got a bit of speech to make.” He’s going to propose to her!
Her response was immediate, “Hang on ─ let me answer this text.”
After a dramatic pause, she looked up and heard what I instinctively knew was on the cards. She said, “Yes,” and they briefly held hands before returning to their mobiles. Who ever said that romance is dead?
In the snug part of the bar meals were being served. In addition to the dirty plates in front of me, one with a few delightful looking onions rings on it – who the fuck ever leaves those lush lovelies – there was some complementary discussion, “Do you want chips with your chips?”
The waiter bellowed, “Number 34!” And my attention was drawn to a man sitting on his own in the corner. Fuck you could feed the inhabitants of a small Polynesian Island with that plate you fat bastard!
Finishing my second pint, prior to another change of internal scenery, I heard the parental tones of a passing family. “Rose, do you want to sit here? Rose? Rose? Are you deaf?” She, about seven, holding crayons and in a world of her own, oblivious to the fact that her dad was having some form of meltdown. To be fair, I kind of remembered what I felt like when I took my two out at that age. Rose, pay attention you little twat!
I took my third drink into the final star chamber, a mixture of young and old with several large tables hosting copious amounts of both food and booze. No sooner had I parked my arse on the padded wooden chair, than the verbal gems flowed, although I realised that my eavesdropping often missed the initial context. Setting the scene is always a vital preamble in any lengthy exchange.
“It’s not illegal at that age.” What the fuck are they discussing? The abridged conversation continued as one guy held up his mobile phone to his mate across the table. “That’s Sally!” The response was just as perplexing, “She hasn’t shared that with me!” as the phone was turned to a landscape view. A sudden surge of patrons entered, and the conversation was neutralised in an instant. I never found out what Sally had done! Or what she would do next. Indeed, this adult version of an Enid Blyton title would remain a mystery for evermore.
My phone then buzzed, and it was Chris announcing his arrival. As I walked back to the main bar, I passed a lady who was sat over the way from me on my arrival, an hour and a half or so earlier. Wearing a long black puffer jacket and matching bobble hat, her attire had no doubt protected her from the outside elements. She was still donned in the same manner supping a gin and tonic. Being averse to the cold myself and often enjoying the same tipple I had a degree of respect for this not so peculiar lady.
Getting the first round in I nodded at the barman who had served me earlier. Having made notes on my iPhone throughout the evening I was about to close the application when I overheard my final snippet of sociological testimony, “Do you want a line with that Corona?” Did I hear that right? Or had I drunk too much by this point?
In the back of my now hazy mind, I knew it was nearly time to move on and get something to eat as I had begun to imagine borrowing one of the mobility scooters to get home. The red one with a basket up front looked particularly dynamic…
In the morning, nursing a head of scientific thoughts I pondered long and hard about what lessons I had learned from the previous evening. But why bother? The novelist Ernest Hemingway had already beaten me to it by uttering the classic reflection, “I drink to make other people more interesting.”
Cheers everyone!
© Ian Kirke 2022 and uncredited photograph.
@ianjkirke
Title photograph by John Arano on Unsplash