Drat

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.

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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.