The Sir John Barleycorn was a beautiful quintessential English country public house. Set back along a disused dirt track and nestled between a cohort of tall fir trees and great gnarled oaks. Only patrons with endless time and money took to navigating the desolate pathway that lead to the entrance of the Sir John. Octogenarians in charge of killing machines blazed along the dusty highway oblivious to the destruction they were causing. Young children, beloved pets and barely mobile elderly could be seen throwing themselves into hedgrows in fear of their lives as the mobility Grand Prix tore past them in dribbled anticipation at the refuelling of its aged and wizened navigators.
It had been a week since Fiddler’s party and we were all meeting up for a very civilised country drink. We were a bit chameleon that way. Being brought up ‘Middle Class’ (The ‘Middle Class’ that meant ‘Middle Class’ and not the ‘Middle Class’ that the ‘Working Class’ adopted as soon as shopping in John Lewis became accessible to everyone) meant you pretended to be anti-establishment by wearing zips on your Corduroy, whilst taking full advantage of a privileged upbringing and borrowing your mothers VW Golf to quaff lager and lime and the occasional floater coffee at some out of the way country retreat.
All was well for the first hour. I was playing darts with Adie, Bob was trying to put his little finger through as many beer mats as he could pile on top of one another and Nobby, Farter and Sandy were seeing how many dry roasted peanuts they could balance inside one ear. All in all we were having a very nice unassuming middle England time of it.
‘Take the bait my friend and let the music play. You are mine and I am yours. Let our greatness shine upon the non believers. It is time’
Nobody told me, not one of my MATES had warned me. As I pulled out my last dart and turned to pick up my lager and lime, there standing at the bar was Gillian. Not on her own, but laughing and looking in that way that says ‘I think everything you say is absolutely hilarious, say some more you very, very funny man’. Who had she snared this time?
‘I didn’t think there was anybody left’ I muttered under my breath.
‘Alright Will, can I get you a drink?’
‘Thanks, another lager and lime, cheers Fiddler”
Fiddler! The same Fiddler that she’d chucked months before Rob had entered the land of jam and honey. Fiddler, hard as nails punk rocker Fiddler who only referred to me as ‘Knob’ as we passed on the stairs of inequity? Fiddler who was now wearing an Aaron jumper and beige chinos?
That was it, I wasn’t about to have my bloody face rubbed in it.
‘Scotch, no ice, i’ll bloody teach her. Whiskey please…make it a double. Another scotch and make it a bloody large one…don’t tell me what to do, just give me the bottle’. Satan’s mouthwash cut the throat of inhibition leaving him lifeless and drained of colour. The show was about to begin and I had a full house to entertain.
‘Ha, ha, that’s so funny.’ Gillian could barely contain her over exaggerated drool for Fiddler’s every ridiculous utterance.
‘We’re going on a picnic on Sunday to the Berkshire Downs, do you fancy coming?’ asked Fiddler as he smoothed the crease on one leg of his chinos.
‘That’d be really great thanks, I’d love to.’ replied Gillian now quite unable to contain a high pitched giggle that seeped from her pouting and luscious lips.
That was it. Those tossers had pushed me over the edge. Going on a picnic? Fiddler was about as punk as Boy George.
‘You can’t help but see the funny side of it can you? A pathetic picked upon lonely masturbator to this. You really have come an awfully long way my friend’
As I climbed onto the table I knocked over some stuffy cow’s Gin & Tonic.
‘Oh, I say young man, look what you’ve done’
‘Oh I am sorry, would you like me to lick it up for you?’
‘Oh, I’ve never been so insulted. I shan’t stay here and be insulted’
‘Good, well fuck off and be insulted somewhere else’
Fiddler tried to grab me, but I managed to move away just in time, leaving him sprawling on the adjoining table, face first in some bloated Octogenarians beef and ale pie.
‘Has anyone here seen a slut?’
I was really going for it now. Rob and Farter had hold of both my legs and were trying to tug me off the table.
‘Come on don’t be shy. Surely someone here has seen a slut. That’s very disappointing. Still no one, well let me help you out. Here’s a slut’
The room fell silent as I pointed directly at Gillian. By now the scene resembled a second year food fight. Fiddler was wiping bits of beer and gravy from his face. Mrs. G&T was struggling to start her mobility scooter and I was delivering my sermon from the mount with Gillian moments away from emptying the entire contents of her Kahlua and milk all over my head.
‘It’s only a pound…roll up, roll up and if you’re lucky you may not have to wait for sloppy seconds…number six, that’s me…six in one night…introducing the one and only…whore’
And with that Gillian’s Kahlua exploded into my face. The landlord, with the help of two locals, Farter, Nobby and Rob, carried me face down and unceremoniously dumped me onto the car park shingle.
‘He’s banned…for life!’ said the landlord as he fingered his heavily Bryl creamed hair neatly back to its former glory. ‘I don’t ever want to see him or you around here again, do you understand? One other thing. Did she really have six in one night’?
And with that they bundled me into the back of Mother’s VW Golf.
Enjoying this greatly - more please!
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