I've recently heard the very sad news that Paul Jenkins, one of my father's friends, fellow VIP and regular at the CIB has passed away. He was the same age as my dad and if you've ever been to City Road or Richmond Road in the evening, chances are you'd have seen Paul crossing the road with his guide dog. If you've been to the Poet's Corner or Ernest Willows, then it's almost a certainty.
Paul was a lovely, friendly man and a good friend of my dad's. Our thoughts are with his family and friends at such a sad time. This story is from quite a few years ago (in the window of time that the Poet's Corner was called the Tut and Shive) and features Paul, my dad and a few other characters.
DRAT
‘How much does a frozen rat cost?’
I enquired whilst downing my penultimate pint of the night in time for last
orders at the Tut and Shive public house in the City Road area of Cardiff. The pub had formerly been known by the
perhaps slightly more evocative title of Poet’s Corner during the days when a
public house was furnished and decorated in a manner bearing some relation to
the business being transacted on the premises.
The Tut and Shive was real mod, man!
Scrapped sheets of corrugated tin were nailed to the walls and
ceiling, toilet pans intermingled with
the general seating, builder’s acrow props held up the ceilings where walls had
been knocked down to extend the bar area, and the floor and plasterwork
required a couple of months intensive hard labour to complete to the clerk of
the works satisfaction. The overall
effect of the condemned building site was to attract hoards of drinkers with a
smudge of the foreman within their psychological make-up.
This watering hole was one of
Paul’s locals. I suppose that the decor
cannot be really rated too highly in the list of little comforts when the
patron in question was blind. Paul had
gone blind a matter of a few years ago, having in his youth, represented Wales
in marathon running. And he was still a
fitness freak. But a fitness freak with a beer belly. this was directly attributable to the rather
wide range of locals where Paul could be found patronising all too regularly!
But, this was his stag night and
hence the reason why we were all gathered here.
‘Ninety pence’, he replied, ‘but I
only need to use one every six weeks or so.’
Now, before I give the wrong impression of this lager sodden
conversation, I had better do my best to divulge the remainder of Paul’s statement
pronto. He continued, ‘Snakes are not
exactly the most energetic of creatures, and so they do not really need feeding
all that often because they just don’t use up the calories, and so, obviously,
the calories don’t need to be replaced velly legularly.’
‘Oh, leally’ I said vacantly,
holding out my empty glass and trying to fathom out the various depths of
audible terrain so as to not miss the passing of any amenable barmaid.
What is it, love?’ asked the one
with the low-cut horizon, intoxicating her audience through the flustered
urgency that hides under the controlled calm of any over importuned barmaid
whenever the first nightly bell tolls.
‘Snakes’ I replied.
‘We don’t sell snakes on draught,
love. They’d block the pipes!’
‘I meant Paul’s!’ I explained.
‘ As much as I’d love to see Paul’s
snake, I think he had better keep it hidden for his new bride to uncoil!’ she
teased while the tempo of her voice quickened to the beat of the brass section
within the drawers of the prattling tills, and the percussion section of overflowing
pint glasses thrashed out time over the metallic tring-a-ding-a-ling drip trays
and drowning the woodwind bar in a lathery froth.
‘A pint of cider, love.’ Boomed an almost harmonious bass-baritone voice from round the corner.
‘Anon, anon dear sir’ she replied,
harping back to the more conventional days of the Poets Corner. The pub was literally surrounded by a host of
poets remembered by street names: Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley and Cyfarthfa, to
name but a few. Cyfarthfa was perhaps
one of the lesser known bards when taking into account some of the real big
quillies scratching and blotting their way through history’s book of verse and
the universe, but he did contribute a significant number of striking Odes to
Coal. One of my own personal favourites
of Cyfarthfa’s is the Welsh romantic series of sonnets entitled ‘You Silly moo
of mine’.
‘I’ve already shown you my snake’
Paul stated like a lost legal document.
‘…and a pint of lager, love’ continued the deep, delving voice above all
the other voices.
‘Anon, anon dear sir’ parried the
barmaid once again as she poured out
another round of beer for the stag party, ‘I’ve only got one pair…’
‘One pair’s enough for any man!’ I
stopped her in her tracks, and suddenly realised I might have been drunk.
‘I’ve only got one!’ Paul informed
us all in the manner of a blue Peter presenter caught in the wrong studio.
‘One is one too many for most men,
love!’ said the barmaid dryly, as she pushed the several beers in their various
directions and collected the money from the best man to be.
‘I’ve given away my white one to
Albany Road Junior School on permanent loan,’ Paul elucidated.
‘…and 2 packets of crisps, please, darling!’
the bellowing voice jumped in again feet first.
‘Coming, love’ burbled the barmaid,
and dropping a fistful of shrapnel into the palm of the best man to be, jiggled
away to her next scrummaging client.
‘Oh, aye’, I said, restoring my attention to
Paul’s snakes behind the comfort of another sparklingly full glass, ‘You used
to have 2 and now you’ve got just one!’
I made my pronouncement confidently, unequivocally proving that I hadn’t
yet lost the plot of the evening.
‘That’s right!’ Paul confirmed,
‘The one I’ve got at home is a Taiwanese Beauty snake. It’s really colourful and beautiful, and
friendly and really easy to keep.’
‘Well, you can keep it!’ I said, ’I
can’t say that I’ve ever been enamoured by the thought of keeping snakes as
pets. Makes me shudder just to think of
it.’
‘Don’t be so narrow minded’ Paul
warned, ‘Snakes are lovely creatures.
They’re not slimy as most people seem to think.’
‘But they’re not real bloody
pets. How can anyone think of a bloody
snake as cuddly, or take it for a walk or dangle a piece of string at it? Do you know what I mean?! They’re just naturally loathsome
creatures. they ain’t furry! They ain’t got no hands and legs! They ain’t got cute little ears! They’ve got really evil eyes, and a really
evil mouth that would open up so wide as to swallow the whole world if they
could, let alone gulping down 90 pence worth of defrosted rat.’
‘I don’t like snakes!’ said the
best man to be, between hiccups.
‘You should hold one,’ Paul
reasoned, ‘they feel really silky and amazingly muscley and ripply when they
move over you or wrap themselves around your arm or neck.’
‘I couldn’t trust a snake’ the best
man to be decided.
‘I’m scared of them!’ I said. ‘Something that has to use it’s belly just to
hold onto you has got to be a bit dodgey.
It ain’t natural.’
‘Snakes are only too natural.’ Paul fought his corner admirably. ‘Snakes are God’s creatures, just like all
the other creatures.’
‘Huh!’ I snorted, ‘Snakes are the
devil’s creatures, cursed to creep and crawl away their whole horrible lives on
their bellies.’ The alcohol seemed to be
extracting inert opinions from me that I did not really harbour. I couldn’t care about snakes one way or the
other, except to view their owners as slightly perverse or somewhat sensation
seeking.
‘They don’t spend that much time
crawling on their bellies,’ Paul said didactically, ‘they remain quite still
most of the time because they’re cold blooded and they need warmth to get them
going.’
‘We all need something warm to get
us going’ said the best man to be while glancing across at the pump and pull
posturing barmaids.
‘Where do you keep it?’ I enquired.
‘In a tank.’ replied Paul. We were stuck to the rim of the busy bar like
flies to fly-paper by the gap-seeking, over-heating jerky-jostling last will
and testament drinkers of this departing Saturday night. Men, women and in-betweens! One young woman tried to prize herself in
between me and Paul. ‘Hello, Paul,’ she
said, ‘do you mind if I squeeze in?’
‘Not at all!’ Paul invited her in
hospitably, breathing in his beer belly
to magically produce the requisite slot.
‘You’ve held my snake, haven’t you, Stephanie?’
‘Oh, yes,’ the young woman replied
with enthusiasm, ‘he’s lovely.’
‘That’s what I’ve been trying to
tell these two.’ Paul declared with feeling on finding an ally for his cause.
‘I really like snakes’ said the best man to be, moving in a little
closer to the human sandwich and with all trace of his hiccups
disappeared. ‘they feel so silky and
smooth, and rippling with sexy muscles when they wriggle and wrap themselves
around your arms and neck, or whatever else they happen to find nice to cling
on to.’ Stephanie giggled sweetly, and
not uninvitingly. Her perfume began to
permeate the chest of my shirt, which was no hardship, especially when she
inclined herself towards me. She held
out her money over our glasses in order to catch the attention of the bar
staff, stretching out her durable body every time one of them came into close
proximity.
‘That’s my best man to be.’ said
Paul.
‘Two halves of cider and black’ she
ordered.
‘Are you the stripogram?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s my night off.’ she
giggled.
‘We could help you with
rehearsals,’ I offered, ‘we’re always on the lookout for good braille
strippers.’
‘Ignore these two,’ Paul advised,
‘they’re just a couple of drunks.’
‘What do you expect on a stag
night?!’ retorted the best man to
be. As you may have guessed, dear
reader, I have forgotten the name of the best man to be, and that is the reason
why I am calling him the best man to be, hoping that his name will resurface to
the accessible part of my brain before I close this snaky tale.
‘That’s my best man to be.’ said
Paul once again. Even the groom to be
was turning out to be of little use in reminding me of his best man to be’s
name! ‘Let’s all go back to my flat when
we’ve finished this one,’ Paul suggested, ‘we’ll get a Chinese take-away and we
can get my snake out and play with him.’
‘Don’t take any notice of him,
Stephanie,’ I said, ‘he’s just being crude!’
Stephanie giggled again, and again transmitted the little tickling
vibrations of her waltzing flesh through my twilight zone.
‘Oieee!’ At this point, Mike woke up from somewhere
broaching the back of beyond and appeared at the verge of the conversation,
‘Oieee, Paul, what are you talking about?!
I bloody well hope you’re not thinking of going home yet!’
‘Well… yes it is time for me to go
home!’ Paul spouted out with a sudden coldness which hit most of us like a
frosty shock to not only the central nervous system but also any central
heating system that nay not even have been installed in this fashionable
dive. The final bell tolled and
breathing space began to surround us once again. There was a mix and match flow of invective
and pleading aimed at the obdurate head and horns of our stupifyingly reluctant
stag. ‘I’ll get a nice, tasty Chinese and sit down with my cats, dogs and
snake in front of the late night movie.’
‘What’s the point! You can’t even see the bloody television let
alone the late night movie!’ spluttered the newly self instated counsellor,
full to the brim of his bottom with sympathy and understanding.
‘But, I really like a good late
night movie,’ Paul replied, ‘it’s nice and relaxing after a few beers’. He was uncompromising and unapologetic, his
decision was made and his mind was resolute.
‘You can all come back with me if you like, but I’m going home!’
‘You’re joking!?’ I said
incredulous of his wish to abandon his own stag party, and now beginning to
feel that I had really lost the evening’s plot.
‘You can’t go home yet surely!’
ejaculated the best man to be with a screwdriver in his voice that sought to
tighten any loosened screw in Paul’s head.
‘Paul! It’s your stag night!’ Mike hastened in with a nose to nose reminder
of past friendship which sounded slightly more semi vicious than semi
imploring.
‘And you’re our bloody stag!’ I blasted bold and brash.
‘It’s time for me to go home’, said
Paul quite unmoved and maintaining his cool equanimity to the growing annoyance
of the insurrecting troop. Having a stag
that suddenly and unexpectedly wishes to retreat from the fray is enough to
burst the balloons out of anyone’s sails, and the result was predictably much
deflating and drooping, and consequent flaccidity of the hitherto uplifted and
hovering spirits. Paul sunk his dregs
down his throat and all too impassionately walked out of the pub, tossing ‘Good
night’s’ and ‘Cheerio’s’ over his shoulder.
Ivor followed suit, ‘I’m going
home, I’ve had enough. And the missus
has to get up at 5 o’clock in the morning’, he half heartedly mumbled. What on earth his missus having to get up at
5 o’clock in the morning had to do with Ivor’s premature departure, or even
with the price of frozen rats was a mystery that nobody bothered to try and
solve. Understandably, the others began
to drift off one by one, until there were only Mike, the best man to be and me
remaining. What a bloody night!
To be fair to Paul, he had never
mentioned anything about extending the evening after the pub was closed. It’s just that we assumed that our stag would
drink till he dropped. The wedding was a
week away, which was more than ample time to recover from any serious alcohol
poisoning. But, then again, Paul had
seen it all before. His first marriage
had ended in heart break for the dear fellow, so perhaps he was just being
cautious and reluctant to tempt providence in this pre nuptial
celebration. Perhaps, he more highly
prized the longer term celebration that would follow his marriage. Each of us contains a delicate assortment of
happy and sad elements, and each individual possesses their own thickness of
superstitious membrane dividing the two,
which we are loathe to tamper with for fear of any collapsed and reconstructed
joys slipping back through it to grow into a colossus in the precincts of
sorrow.
‘Bloody women!’ spluttered the best
man to be, ‘No sooner does one of them come in our midst, than the whole bloody
party splits up.’
‘Well, you’re the one who wanted to come in her midst by the
looks of things!’ Mike dug in his index finger.
‘Stuff ‘em all!’ I mediated, ‘let’s
just carry on the stag night anyway! Who
cares if we ain’t got a bloody stag!’ A
modicum of pleasure suddenly raised our collective spirits, like land giving
the illusion of rising from the sea as it is being reclaimed from the receding
waves. We were all jolly again, and
after a perfunctory period of deliberation on our night time strategy, we
toddled off to the 147 Club where we slished and sloshed ourselves up to the
eyeballs until 2 o’clock in the morning.
And now… the following passages of
social intercourse can only be described as a translation of the slurred
utterances and mutterances of the left-overs of consciousness.
After our second eviction of the
night, the three of us stood outside the 147 Club, wondering where our next
drink was coming from.
‘Let’s go and see Paul!’ suggested
the best man to be.
‘Let’s go and see
Paul!’ said Mike.
‘Haaaa, let’s go and
see Paul! said I also.
We’ll wake him up, the sod!’ said
the best man to be.
‘We’ll wake up the
sod’ said Mike.
‘We’ll bloody well wake
the sod up!’ I said, ‘and it serves him right’.
‘Yes, it does bloody well serve him right!’ said Mike. ‘
Oh aye, it serves him right alright!’ said
the best man to be.
As you will note, dear reader, much
of the conversation was being issued in triplicate, and therefore, in order
that I do not cause any more offence than is necessary, I shall try to report
the coming events through the filter of a divisible factor of three. We were still in City Road, which just
happened to be all too close to Paul’s flat.
Just round the corner, so to speak, not that the quality of our speaking
was worthy of anything other than scientific research into our primitive
forerunners. We plid-ploddingly homed in
on Paul’s home and all brazenly squeezed into the narrow porch.
‘Wake up, you sod!’ the best man to
be banged on the letterbox of Paul’s front door.
‘Where is that Chinese takeaway you
promised us?’ banged Mike.
‘Get out here, you cowardly stag
and open the door’ yelled the best man
to be, ‘you’re as much use as a one legged man in a bum kicking contest’
‘Paul!’ I banged, ‘we’ve come to
wish you good luck! Get the drinks ready
for the pre nuptial toast!’
Paul drowsily opened his front door
and stood sentry. He was still fully
clothed, and so had not been to bed.
‘Where’s your snake?’ asked the best man to be.
‘Asleep in his tank!’ yawned Paul,
‘and I’m not turning his heater on now to get him up. It’s too late!’
‘Where’s the Chinese takeaway you
promised us?’ said Mike, the drool of hunger dripping from his voice.
‘I ate it all!’ answered Paul
neutrally.
‘We’ve been to the 147’ I said.
‘Good, good.’ said Paul neutrally.
‘What have you got for us to drink
your good health and happiness with?’ I hinted as subtly as a ton of broken bricks.
‘and what grub have you got?’ Mike
bullishly added.
‘You did say we could come to your
flat’ the best man to be piled on the pressure.
‘Well, come in then, but I don’t
have anything to eat or drink.’ Paul declared inhospitably, which was
understandable considering that the clock hand had made it’s turn towards 3 am.
‘You must have something in the
fridge.’ insisted Mike vehemently.
‘Well, I’ve got a couple of pasties
in the freezer.’ said Paul neutrally.
‘Brilliant’ said Mike, relaxing his
mood, ‘stick a couple in the microwave for us!’
‘and I’ll have a whisky, please’ I
said.
‘And so will I’ echoed the best man
to be.
‘I haven’t got any whisky’ Paul
said neutrally.
‘You’ve got the rum I gave you’
contested the best man to be.
‘Well, that’s not whisky’ said Paul
with a little feeling.
‘We’ll take it!’ I dropped my
hovering gavel on the bargain on behalf of us all. ‘I don’t want anything to eat’, I added. ‘Nor do I’ echoed the best man to be.
Paul shuffled away and left us to
the attentions of his guide dog Ossie, and his long term pet Beamish, and to
the bitings and scratchings of his 3 ever alert kittens. Thankfully, the snake was being kept well
confined in his tank.
Paul returned a little more lively
than at his withdrawal, and handed each of us a shot of rum. ‘Your pasty’s in the microwave, Mike, go and
get it. It should be about ready’.
‘Lovely’. Mike sauntered off towards the kitchen as we
began musing on the first toast of extra time.
We had probably drunk all the toasts there were to be drunk for one
person in one night, so it was a case of going around again in honour of the
bride. Suddenly, a hoarse, gruff scream
bellowed out of the kitchen, an involuntary scream of immediate and just exploding
fear.
‘Paul!’ I yelled accusingly, ‘your
bloody snake must be loose in the kitchen!’
‘He’s in his tank!’ Paul replied
with a calmness that typified his nature.
‘Mike!’ shouted the best man to be
from the comfort and safety of his arm chair, and raising his feet to his seat,
‘what’s the matter?!’
Mike staggered back into the living
room, negligently scattering dogs and cats all about him and stumbling, not so
much from the effects of earlier alcohol, but from the shuddering mind and body
blow of some overwhelmingly horrible shock.
‘Paul, you stupid sod!’, Mike’s voice was loud but trembling, ‘you
stupid sod!’
‘What happened?!’ we asked one
after another. For a moment Mike could
not shape his mouth well enough to make comprehensible noises, but fortunately,
our ears had become attuned to this type of prattle during the eroding effects
of the evening.
‘What’s the matter, mate?’ I
enquired, ‘Is the snake crawling about in the kitchen?’
‘No, no’ Mike replied, collapsing
onto a semi available couch and taking a large swig of his rum.
‘But why did you yell out like
that?’ asked the best man to be hiding behind his elevated knees.
‘It was when I put my hand in the
microwave to get my pasty…’ Mike said regaining a little composure and
beginning to breathe more evenly.
‘Did you burn your hand?’ I asked.
‘No, no!’ he declared wiping
sobering globules of sweat from his brow.
‘What then!’ I asked.
‘I put my hand in the microwave to
get my pasty,’ he replied, ‘and I pulled
out a hot, hairy rat.’
‘Oops’ said Paul.
