A Pot of Ale
and Safety
I
glared at Bailey in as vicious a manner as I could muster. “You bastard, you’re
fucking late.”
“Fuck
off.”
I
could punch that face, right now. Hangover. Too many session beers. Oh yes,
that’s right, I could hear the smug voice behind the raised glass from
yesterday afternoon as we’d pitched up at ‘Hooters’, Nottingham: “This,
Addison, pal, is a session beer.”
“A
what?”
“That’s
right. ‘Banks’ Mild’. Drink as many of these as you like, pal. Have no effect
on you, I tell you. Slow and steady. Down the hatch, pal.”
“Right.
Two more of those then.”
“And
then two more after the other two more.”
Our
host was a cheery fellow. To start with. “Call me barkeep,” he’d said, waving
the roller skating girls in our direction with plenty of jugs – and Banks’ Mild,
too. He stopped being quite so friendly when Bailey started singing Charlton
Athletic tunes in a provocative fashion, three or four jugs down the road.
“Tell your mate to shut it. There are Forest
fans in here. Or you’re leaving.”
“Sorry.
Not even a Charlton fan, either.” And I’d looked at Bailey with alarm.
“Supports Wolves. We’re off there early doors tomorrow.”
I
wondered how we’d get through the game.
Needn’t
have, though. Worried about the game, I mean. Neither of us could remember any
of it, except, inevitably, Charlton had lost. Well, Charlton always lose. They
should replace Athletic with Nil to save time when the scores are read out on
Sports Report.
I
changed up to fifth and put my foot down. We’d made the A50. It was 11 o clock and
we had to get cross country - make The Wheatsheaf in Wolverhampton
by 12, so we could check in, get beered up and arrive at Molineux by two thirty,
latest. Bastard Bailey. Bastard session beers.
“Slow
down.” Bailey rolled the window down and puked up a Full English in the
direction of the hard shoulder. Most of it was flung against the car by the
force of the apparent wind velocity and speed. Some made it back inside. It
began to reek.
“Stinking
bastard. You’re cleaning that when we get there, don’t think you’re not.”
The
girl serving in the Wheatsheaf passed Bailey a cloth and bucket without
comment. As the scrubbing proceeded outside, I sat, feeling ill but glad we’d
survived the drive, pushing my fork around a plate of luke warm spaghetti bolognese
previously slopped onto a plastic plate in front of me. Seventy five pence
poorly spent. “Any parmesan?” I asked.
Bailey
scoffed outside. “Parmesan? This is Wolverhampton ,
pal.”
“Fuck
off.”
“I’ll
see if I can get some in Low Cost,” answered the girl. And she left, taking the
opportunity to spark up a fag.
I
downed the second pint of lager as Bailey returned with the bucket of rancid
water, thoughtlessly placed by my feet. “Tip it away,” I scowled. Looked at the
clock. Two pm. And Molineux a good walk from here, in biting winter winds.
We
seized our scarves and hats and I buttoned my coat across the Charlton top I
was wearing. We walked to the ground in sulking silence.
Wolves
won, of course. Bailey was delighted. Gloating. But on the way back there’d
been a scuffle in the underpass. I hadn’t wanted to get involved but we’d had a
couple of rum punches in The Feathers, opposite the Steve Bull. Jamaican.
Samantha makes them.
They
can cloud your judgement.
The
policeman wasn’t very understanding, but she trousered her truncheon.
Eventually. “Teachers? You’re both teachers?” she asked. “Well you should be
setting a better example. There are families here. Children. What would they
think if the knew?” She sighed. “I advise you to get out of Wolverhampton .
But sober up first.”
The
M6 was packed with Sunday drivers. My head was pounding and the traffic was
shimmering in the freezing fog. Bailey wasn’t much better and we had another
300 miles to go to make home. School tomorrow.
Bailey
was fidgeting in the passenger seat. I spoke. Well slurred, probably. “I can’t
go on. The car smells of sick. My head is completely shot. My hands are
trembling. Take over.”
“No
fucking chance.” Bailey’s eyes kept closing involuntarily.
I
looked at the sign coming up on the left. Coventry
Welcome
break, welcome break, welcome break…the words pirouetted through my brain. I
was going to be sick. I indicated left.
“No!”
snapped Bailey. “Push on to Coventry
“Plan?”
“Yeah.
Remember? The school senior rugby team is playing against Coventry
“So?”
“We’ll
bowl up there, watch the game from the bar, get some snooze. Wait for your head
to clear. Hide in the crowd. Push on after the match. If nothing else, we can
say we’re true to our school. Or I’ll get on the coach and go home with the
lads. Can’t stand this car. It smells of vomit.”
“Bastard.”
“And
you.”
The
plan had merit, so we found the place. I pulled in and got out unsteadily. The
winter breeze made my head somersault, but I steadied myself. Bailey was puking
into the verge again. But I felt a sense of relief. A good hour’s break.
Possibly two if it went to extra time. And anonymity in the crowd. Nobody would
notice our filthy hangovers.
Someone
approached as Bailey straightened up.
“Shit!
The Headteacher!”
She
smiled wanly as she approached us, looking us up and down and clocking the car
and the adjacent verge.
“Hello
girls,” she said. “Come to watch the match? How sporting of you. You can sit
with me.”
