The First Pub Of The Evening.
It was Topman who gave birth to the idea that led us to Stevenage.
There are four of us in our work team; all live quite a distance from each other so arranging an evening after work isn’t all that easy. Topman lives in Newport, Wales, Thinker lives in Beaconsfield, I live in Swindon and Sunny lives in Stevenage.
‘Why don’t we just have a night out in each of our home towns?’ suggested Topman.
We chose to do Sunny’s hometown first because he was the newest member of our team. Topman selected a reasonable hotel for the three members of the team who were playing away, in a manner of speaking…
The date decided on was the 19th July 2011. Topman played chauffeur and drove me to Stevenage just after mid-day.
Topman asked: ‘What d’you reckon on Sunny then?’
Sunny was the latest member of the team and replaced Smiler who left earlier in the year.
‘In what way?’ I asked, ever cautious.
‘I’ve got this feeling he could be a lager drinker.’
I frowned. It was a little disturbing. I’m sure a dark cloud appeared overhead.
‘Might not be…’
‘Well, when you gave him those two bottles of Black Sheep he seemed a little puzzled.’
‘I thought it was because he didn’t know much about our beer club.’
Within our team we often exchange bottles of beer we get from our travels.
‘No, he knew something about that…’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm.’
We got another fifty or more miles along before Topman spoke again.
‘I could be wrong…’
I nodded. ‘Yeah,’ I said, hopefully.
Once we got to the hotel, I took a shower and unpacked the change of clothes and bathroom toiletries. I was quite pleased with the room. It was spacious with large window, letting in plenty of light. The only problem was breakfast. When we booked in we were told we would have to have breakfast in our rooms. The dining room was to be used for a photo shoot early the next morning.
‘What A Lovely Room’
I showered and changed, then, at around 5pm, we decided to go for the first beer while we waited for the others to arrive.
Topman was dressed into casual top and shorts. I couldn’t ever remember wearing shorts except at school. Lots of blokes these days do when going drinking. Having legs like albino twiglets I always tended to refrain from wearing them…
I located a place just round the corner – almost literally – called The Chequers. We made for there and found it was a Greene King pub; which is hardly surprising in a Greene King Dominated area.
Not a bad place, large bar and plenty of Rugby photographs about the walls, it brought back some memories for Topman. Being a Welshman, Rugby featured quite prominently in his life…
We both had the IPA. It wasn’t bad. But it would never hit my top ten. Actually, probably not the top twenty…
We were there for ten minutes when my ability to attract irritating little tics kicked in. He looked about middle to late thirties. His hair was short and dark. He was wearing jeans, trainers and a shirt along with some sort of sleeveless jacket. There was a white plastic bag by his feet. From the look in his eyes I guessed he’d been there a while.
‘So where do you come from?’ he chipped in as Topman was in mid-sentence.
‘Swindon,’ I replied.
‘Newport,’ Topman said.
He frowned as he digested the information.
‘You know each other?’ he asked, again interrupting our conversation.
‘We work together,’ said Topman; to try to deflect supplementary questions he added. ‘We’re meeting up with our work colleagues. One of them lives in Stevenage.’
‘Oh.’
He took some more time to digest this latest piece of information, then piped up again. ‘Who do you work for?’
We told him. Then what did we do. Then it a dissection on whether there was any point to it.
After about fifteen minutes, which seemed more like an hour, he got up, insisted on shaking our hands and wobbled his way out.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Topman.
‘No need for you to be sorry, it’s not your fault.’
‘Happens all the time, dogged by it; irritating little tics seem to latch onto me.’
We put away a second pint then Topman decided we should move on. We walked on towards the old town centre. It was only about five minutes before we got to the next pub, the Coach and Horses.
I wasn’t too keen on this one. Noisy; lots of shed-building music (thump, thump, bang, bang), no clips on the beer pumps; and a barman you almost expected to do a couple of Saturday Night Fever moves before he served you.
Greene King again and food!
‘Any real beer?’ asked Topman.
‘Sorry, waiting for a delivery….’
I suspected he’d been waiting for that delivery for years. I would’ve left at that point but Topman convinced me to make do with John Smiths.
We went outside with what the pub dubiously called beer and sat at a bench.
We were just discussing when we thought Thinker and Sunny might turn up when Thinker rang.
‘That was Thinker,’ he told me.
‘Is he at the hotel yet?’ I asked.
‘Um, he’s in the car park at Tesco’s,’ replied Topman.
‘O.K.’ I frowned, ‘Doing the weekly shop?’
‘He’s a little lost and I’ve given him directions…’
‘Right.’
‘Better get back to the hotel, in case Thinker needs further help. Sunny should have arrived by now,’ suggested Topman.
Before we got any further let me explain some things about Thinker. He’s in his early thirties, around five-seven and of a very pleasant disposition. He is probably one of the most intelligent chaps I have ever met, but sometimes the minutiae of life can cause him a little trouble. Topman and I agree he has all the attributes to make a good Doctor Who.
As we’re approaching the hotel Thinker turns up in his car.
As Thinker stops alongside us, Topman leans towards the open window.
‘Found us then?’
‘Um, yes. The map I used took me to Tesco’s car park. I saw the hotel from the road but took the wrong turning.’
Topman frowned. ‘Why didn’t you use your SatNav?’
‘Ah, um, well, I’ve, er, lent it to my sister.’
‘Ok. Anyway, the hotel is just round the corner, opposite the front of this big building,’ said Topman pointing to the large building across the road.
You might think not a lot can go wrong in three hundred yards but one has to remember it’s Thinker we’re dealing with here…and to continue the Doctor Who analogy, like the TARDIS, Thinker’s car may not always end up where it should and rarely at the correct time.
We get back to the hotel, Thinker is just arriving in the car and Sunny is there, sat in the garden. He looked quite relaxed, casually dressed in polo shirt, jeans; no jacket.
Thinker tells us he’ll be about an hour, he wants to have a shower and get changed. So, rather than wait, off we went to the Chequers for the second time.
As Topman got the round in he glanced at me, then the lager pump, then Sunny. I knew what he was getting at. So when Sunny looked at the beers on offer and opted for lager, Topman gave me a ‘I told you so’ look.’
Well, no one is perfect.
It was while we were putting away the second round of a second visit to the Chequers when Londontaff joined us; Topman’s friend.
Shortly after, Thinker arrived and bought our fourth round. Shortly after disposing of that we were on the move again. Deeper into Stevenage old town where restaurants and other shops and more importantly, pubs lay in abundance…well, there were quite a few anyway.
The Pub That Did For Topman
The next pub was the Red Lion where we also ate a meal; nothing fancy just a steak and chips job for me. After this we made our way to a place called 2 Dry. For the first time that evening we got away from Greene King beers and moved to McMullen’s.
It was this pub that will always, in my opinion, be well-remembered by Topman. It was the wide-open staring eyes, not seeing, with so much sadness in them. Then the almost whispered:
‘Five pounds a pint!’
I patted his shoulder in sympathy, as did Londontaff and Thinker. We all hoped we’d move on before the next round.
‘I didn’t realise that when I asked for it,’ said Sunny, feeling a tad guilty.
The most expensive drink on the round as the beers came in cheaper, even Londontaff’s Guinness…
‘Five quid a pint,’ Topman mumbled again. He was still staring almost unseeing.
‘Anyway, McMullen’s makes a change from Greene King,’ I said, trying to move the subject along.
Topman looked at me, took me by the shoulders and shook me. ‘Five pounds a pint.’
Being a friend of long-standing, Londontaff, stepped in turned Topman around slapped him around the chops.
Topman shook his head, looked at his own beer, down to half a pint. The spell was broken.
I was feeling a little tired as the old pins for some reason were giving me a little trouble. There was a small table next our group and one chair. As the oldest I lay claim to it.
‘That’s the good thing about the beard going white, young kids give up their seats for me on the bus. I could also crap myself now and get away with it…People would just say, ‘poor old sod, getting old, can’t control his functions anymore…’ I told Londontaff.
Londontaff grinned…
Mrs Londontaff joined us and we stayed another half hour before the party went their separate ways. Sunny off to his house somewhere in Stevenage, Mr and Mrs Londontaff back to London – Mrs Londontaff driving, being the sober one, and Topman, Thinker and I to our hotel…
I awoke at about 8am the next morning and within half an hour was showered and dressed. I was about to ring down for breakfast when the telephone rang. It was reception.
‘Breakfast in the dining room,’ a voice informed me.
‘Oh, I thought it was to be in the bedroom.’
‘The dining room is now free. The photo shoot is not going ahead.’
‘Ok.’
I put the telephone down and shrugged. Although it might be a novelty having breakfast in my room I preferred it at a proper table.
I rang Topman. ‘Breakfast in the dining room.’
‘I thought we were supposed to have it in our rooms?’
‘The dining room is now free. The photo shoot is not going ahead’
‘Ok.’
I then rang Thinker.
‘Breakfast in the dining room.’
‘I thought we were supposed to have it in our rooms?’
‘The dining room is now free. The photo shoot is not going ahead.’
Ok.’
I began to get this terrible bout of déjà vu. It rather disoriented me for a while.
Unsurprisingly, as there was food involved, I was the first one down for breakfast. There didn’t seem to be anyone else. Either we were the only guests or the only ones who were having breakfast.
Within five minutes a waiter appeared and I went for the full English with coffee and toast. Well, what other choice could I possibly make?
Shortly afterwards, Topman arrived and about fifteen minutes after him, Thinker.
As soon as Thinker sat down both Topman and I thought he didn’t look all that good. But he bravely managed a full English washed down with lots of black coffee. It took him a bit of time but he got there. A real trooper.
Mine slid down rather quickly and I’m embarrassed to say I could’ve put away another quite easily….
TELLING TALES 
I can no longer resist the compulsion to claim the half-century of comments. I’m sure Fitters will understand the irrational fear of being stranded on 49 at the close. Apologies to the Regular Reader; my current evangelical enthusiasm for the work of Marcel Proust has not inspired entertaining discussion, but it’s (arguably) better than nothing.
Sorry, the comments box is being uncooperative and will not accept my lengthy, Proust-inspired reply to your observations. An all day session in the pub may be required in order for me to have my say.
The odd thing about this dispute, as future scholars will doubtless attest, is that it has somehow reversed our customary roles, with you haughtily brandishing the intellectual superiority that comes to one who has read Proust and me being forced to go for the cudgel of inverted snobbery when I am quite clearly jealous of your having successfully tackled a classic of world literature which has gotten the better of me without my so much as picking it up.
Oh, for God’s sake, GloomLaden; it’s clockwise an a Monday, as any good Proustian worth ‘son sel’ will attest. But let’s call time on this dispute, we’re behaving rather too much in the manner of internet trolls.
What are these subjects that Proust alone knew how to take seriously, then? Which side of the bed one chose to get into when a five year old? How the Compte de Hawhehawhehaw stirred his coffee clockwise on a Wednesday, anticlockwise on a Friday?
You swallow the gospel according to the late St.Bob, without question, and confuse seriousness with intellectual pretentiousness, which is laughable. There are few subjects genuinely worth taking seriously; Proust knew better what they were. There’s a difference between defensive levity and good, old-fashioned piss-taking, Gloomers. Attacking levity, more like, with you as the target.
You see? Your defensive levity once again steps in, proving my point.
I’m also a great admirer of Prash-ehh.
Camus rhymes with Shame-us and Flaubert is pronounced Flaw-Bert, as in Dilbert and Dogbert. I see no reason not to enjoy both Proust and Tom Sharpe, and I don’t see how anyone could possibly have taken Robert Robinson seriously. But you make me laugh more than any of them, GloomLaden; your pomposity knows no bounds.
I don’t think introspection unhealthy. But the particular cast of English sensibility of which I thought you an example usually does think it so. I know that – for example when you speak of Camus, rhyming his name with ‘damn us’ – there is a sense in which you are getting your defence against pretentiousness in first. A Frenchman need do no such thing because he is comfortable with the idea that any man might discuss philosophy or literature. We English are supposed to pooh-pooh such stuff. Our entire literary canon is comic because we can’t quite take life seriously. Or is it rather, as Robert Robinson once said, that we can’t take seriousness seriously? Either way, I am amazed, a little appalled and a tad repelled at the way you’ve rhapsodised over Proust. I’m really not being (that) patronising when I say I thought Tom Sharpe more your line of country.
There is much humour in Proust, Gloomers, but I suspect many readers fail to spot it, in the same way that they might miss those hilarious one-liners in Beckett. The intensity of the introspection makes the environment almost irrelevant, too. It might just as easily be set in Midsomer Worthy. You’ve not experienced me experiencing evangelical enthusiasm before have you? And since when has introspection been unhealthy?
All joshing aside, Blamers, I am amazed at how a formerly urbane, English as tuppance reader such as yourself has fallen so readily under the Proustian spell. All that unhealthy introspection, all those interminable sentences, the (I’m guessing here) total lack of humour ought to make an Englishman with Dickens at his disposal feel positively dismissive. The English novel is essentially comic, the French inessentially philosophic (Zola the honourable exception). I’m not saying you should stop reading Proust (yes I am) but that you should reign in your evangelical enthusiasm.
As I approach the midway point in my search for lost time there’s still been very little repellent content to speak of, and what there is has been dealt with briefly as if Proust feels the reader shouldn’t need to know too much. I’m optimistic about the fourth volume, though, which is entitled ‘Sodom & Gomorrah’.
But you, a middlebrow?!
I have considered forcing down a little more Stan but, having read one, I feel I’ve read more than forty. There’s only so much a writer can observe in an arid existence without leaving the reader feeling even more deprived.
Like every middlebrow, I intend to read Proust. I intend to read him when I retire. Why wait? Because I know damned well that I probably won’t live to retire and that, even if I do, I won’t read Proust. Knowing nothing of love and only something of loss, I wonder how much I would get out of it anyhow. Surely the thrill of such writing is in the recognition, if that doesn’t reduce Marcel to the dimensions of a Dave Allen observational comedy routine. Nah, you want to get some Stan down you; the aridity of the life he describes is, if nothing else, English. And there is nothing repellent.
Those deeply read fellows you refer to, are they the intellectual equivalent of Mick Hucknall and the long-forgotten members of his former band?
Oh, if only my hands were horny from a lifetime of good, honest toil, GloomLaden, instead of which I have become physically and mentally stunted after all those years spent vegetating in an office chair. You should read Proust; it’s all about love and loss, you know. Perhaps it would go some way towards filling that vast, icy-cold vacuum at the centre of your soul.
Forgive me my melancholy; I’m still mourning the death of JJ Cale last weekend.
My last post made less sense than Proust. Fear not; Blameworthy is the man to decipher it, with his little learning heavily worn.
Come now, Blameworthy, just because you’ve taken a gander at sickly little Marcel’s claustrophobic maunderings and been unduly impressed – as rude mechanicals such as yourself well might – at a little fancy sentence structure, do not assume – still less imply, intellectual superiority more widely and deeply read fellows of your acquaintance modesty forbids me to name. Besides, reading Proust in retirement is a cliché it takes a certain sort of horny handed autodidact to fall into the trap of.
If it’s a novel about a drunken writer, it must be good literature in your book, eh, Gloomers? Some years ago I picked up the book in a Wantage charity shop and took it to the pub, where I read the first part over several pints. I, too, remember only the first chapter, which was disturbingly true to life and obviously written by a drinker. Pincher Martin was also a strange, but gripping, tale.
Golding’s good, but he’s no Proust.
I notice, via the Fitrambler tweets, that Fitters’ literary tastes have taken a turn for the better. William Golding’s The Paper Men??????? I read that book but only recall the opening chapter, a very funny account of an alcoholic writer having an appalling drunken session.
Have a wonderful holiday, Fitters. If you still get the urge to shout and punch the air each time you pass through Deganwy, just make sure it’s only air you’re punching. Best do the Stuart Hall impressions in private, too. Ha, ha, ha, haaaahh; you poor fish!
Thought I may have raked over old memories which you would prefer not to be exposed in the public domain – so to speak. But what about about the evening Bristol crawl which started from Parkway?
As an addendum. Can’t figure out why your last comment needed me to approve it. Although, it did get to the blog unlike my first attempt to reply…
Still, on the plus side I at least know the app is useless and therefore will not use it when I got on holiday.
I write this comment with a sense of déjà vu. Having spent time writing it using what is supposed to be an app which makes managing your blog easy! It doesn’t. Luckily the vast majority of iPad apps do work well.
No, you haven’t offended me, cannot think why you would think you had?
I’ve been busy packing the proverbial bucket and spade for one’s holiday.
Setting the old noggin on the problem I can only – at the moment – think of two occasions where we did not get home until the early hours. Both were London trips.
The first resulted in spending most of the early hours on Swansea station, where I almost inspired a bout of communal throwing up by being sick in the waiting room bin.
I can only say overindulgence on pizza, nuts and beer and the guard keep turning off the heater contributed to this uncouth incident.
The second time I remember being charged for a ticket. I think you got away with it because you’d gone off in search of food. You came back with two slices of cheese on toast. And for what can be described as a rare moment in my life I wasn’t in the least bit hungry.
The reason I think they are two different incidents is because on the first I went into work from the train station. On the second I took the day off.
At the moment no further recollections of returning the day after spring to mind, but I will update if they do.
Like a lot of my recollections there has to be what I call a trigger. There were a couple each which allowed me to recall these occasions.
My censored comment was posted as a serious question, Fitters. If it caused offence I apologise. It was something that came up in a conversation during which, once again, I was accused of blaming others for occasions when things have not gone to plan.
We spoke of your famously retentive memory at the weekend Fitters, and I have a question for you: In our less mature years, how many times did we set out from Swindon for a long distance day-return pub crawl and not make it back home until the following morning? I hasten to add that this has no connection with the speculation concerning the shape of your lower limbs.
I agree. Do you prefer chilli sauce or mustard?
With my apologies for opening up an area of discourse that really ought to have remained closed, I suggest we all maintain a discreet silence for a while. Seven years should do it.
You might also want to reconsider your use of the words ‘perversely’ and ‘reverse’ in that last sentence, Fitters, if you ever want to spend time with GloomLaden again.
Although, however stomach-churning regular readers might find the plethora of repellent images conjured up by previous comments, I still find the thought of eating a genuine kebab harder to swallow
I hate to say I told you so, GloomLaden, but I bet you really, really wish you hadn’t logged on today, don’t you?
Describing my legs as kebabs is rather unfortunate as a woman of my acquaintance some many years ago used that self same expression. Only it didn’t refer to my legs but a part of her anatomy. It was some months after this before I could think of ever eating a donor kebab without that imagery. Perversely, the reverse also applied in my attitude to sex….
I admire your pluck in exposing a pertinent bone of contention here, Gloomladen, but you are, nevertheless, in danger of sailing, gung-ho, into seriously choppy waters whilst lifting the lid on a whole can of worms, with a ‘best-before’ date which expired decades ago. I’d advise the Pink Lady to stash last years holiday snaps somewhere secure, they may turn out to be worth far more than you might expect.
Had I been able to muster the wherewithal to attend the session on Saturday, one of the things I would have had to have out with Fitrambler is this business of his claiming to have legs like albino twiglets. Now I’ve never seen the legs in question – Fitrambler has been fully trousered at all times when in my company – but if this description were accurate, said albino twiglets would (I contend) be unable to support the Fitrambler frame. Now, if he’d said anaemic kebabs. . .
We bumped into The Casual Reader, The Occasional Reader, The Deaf Bloke and The Other Deaf Bloke in the last pub – which, indeed, was the most ghastly – and The Casual Reader – dressed in string vest, Bermuda shorts and sandals – asked: ‘Where’s that smug, gloating, pompous arse, GloomLaden tonight?’
I assume you were back indoors before the drenching rain began, Gloomers. We weren’t; we got utterly sluiced. I’ve been drying my damp underwear today, although I’m not entirely sure the rain seeping in was the cause.
One does not wish to gloat, naturally, but it seems only right to point out that while Fitters and Blameworthy were engaged in the traditional macho business of matching one another pint for pint, prejudice for prejudice in a succession of increasingly ghastly pubs, I was sipping cider in my back garden and betting successfully on Novelist to win the big race at Ascot. I leave the casual reader to draw his own conclusions, while advising him not be so effing casual; what’s wrong with collar and tie, eh?
Never again!
Even Proust would be hard pressed to express my disappointment, GloomLaden. I can think of nothing more refreshing than spending the afternoon in a pub garden getting sluiced in drenching rain. Except, possibly, blowing one’s own horn while riding barebacked and naked with the massed mounted members of the Berkeley Hunt.
Tally Ho!
Since the weather forecast shows teeming, sluicing, driving, drenching rain on Saturday, I am minded to cry off this session. Besides, it is certain to end in a row about fox hunting or UKIP.
My persistent taunting has paid off; GloomLaden has returned from the dead to make another of those impenetrable comments we once pondered over on a regular basis. At least, I did.
To Gloom-Laden in the words of Mrs Doyle (no relation to Roddy)…go on, go on, go on, go on, go on, go on……ok you get the idea.
Marcel does, indeed, touch, briefly, upon the early blossoming of those repellent proclivities in Vol.2 ‘In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower’, but quickly glosses over them in order to embark on a ten page diversion on the subject of his latest young lover’s fingers. Perhaps things will hot up a little in Vol.3. The Marquis de Sade, on the other hand, provides better value for money by airing his peccadilloes as early as the third paragraph on page 1, but I’ll say no more in case the internet filters kick in and wipe out the Fitrambler blog entirely.
The question is: are you prepared to join us for a yomp across the fields this weekend? Perhaps we could indulge in a spot of fishing from the towpath of the old canal whilst reciting Proust in the original French. What do you say, eh?
Do excuse my earlier, frivolous comment – the last couple of times I have tried posting comments I got a message saying the operation had failed because I was trying to post a comment too quickly. Was I being accused of not having cogitated sufficiently long on Fitrambler’s Proustian disquisition, I wonder? Now I can post a comment (it seems) I have quite forgotten what it was I wanted to comment on. Probably, it was to the effect that Fitrambler is a better writer than Proust. He does not write in French or go in for extended metaphors about how catching a fish better than being served one at a bistro. I bet Proust never caught a fish, just a number of colds and certain notifiable sexual diseases attendant upon the repellent proclivities he disingenuously keeps out of his novels.
‘Mwaaaaaaaaah!’
– Ivy Compton Burnett (age 1)
GloomLaden, GloomLaden, why hast thou forsaken us?
Thought for the day on this sunny, summer Sunday comes courtesy of Marcel Proust: ‘People are only willing to learn how to swim if allowed to keep one foot firmly on the ground’
I believe Gloom-Laden outsmarted the ghosts in that story and refused to be conned by them; so much so that one was on the verge of a breakdown. I would rate Gloom-Laden rather high on the ‘Highly Intelligent People I Have Met’ list. And he also has directional problems alluded to in the blog and in that case attributed to Thinker. Although I would say having a better pair of minces Thinker doesn’t have as decent an excuse for his oft geographical displacements….
As I recall, he was portrayed as something of a buffoon in the Christmas story. Not that I have a problem with that; I’ve always preferred fiction that reflects real life with accuracy. Fair play to you, Fitters.
Gloom-Laden should know the high regard in which I hold him; or at least I hope he does. Let’s face it, he had a whole Christmas story based around him. An honour only attributed to his good self.
GloomLaden tells me he has already read this latest blog post, and I imagine it would have crossed his (great) mind that whilst Thinker may be ‘one of the most intelligent people’ Fitrambler has ever met, he surely can’t be THE most intelligent. I know you will be too modest to mention it though, Gloomers. It’s only on the rarest of occasions that a glimmer of light filters through from the depths of your huge bushel.