RSS

Contact us

Sunday 7 September 2008

Around the bend

Jeremy Clarke reports on his Low Life

I stood at the bar and recognised the shelves beside which I’d knelt every Saturday and Sunday morning, lining up Babychams, Indian tonic waters and Manns brown ales, labels smartly to the front, like soldiers on parade. There were few customers: an elderly bloke at the far end of the bar and a couple bent conspiratorially over their knives and forks at one of the tables was all. It was just after six o’clock and quiet before the Saturday-night rush.

As the landlord poured my pint, I said to him, ‘Thirty-five years ago I used to work in here. I used to bottle up at weekends.’ He looked between the pumps at me. Inscribed in his features were humour, mischief, dishonesty, violence and tragedy. He took in my dark suit and 90-quid shirt and wasn’t fooled. ‘Well, I hope you’ve found yourself a better f***ing job since then, mate,’ he said.

A girl aged perhaps 14 or 15, small, spherical, with chunky glasses, appeared behind the bar. She went up to the landlord and appeared to slap his face with terrific force. The landlord jerked his head back. That, she proudly informed both him, and me, was what is known in the game as a stage slap. She went to give him another. This time he expertly caught her wrist, twisted it about, and put her in a headlock. A customer appeared at the bar with a wine list. He looked puzzled. Gripping the girl’s head in the crook of his arm, the landlord put on his most unctuous, here-to-help face. ‘This here Merlot,’ said the customer, ignoring the plight of the girl. ‘Is it French?’ ‘No idea,’ said the landlord.

Dragging the struggling girl with him, he went to the wine chiller, took out a bottle of Merlot and judiciously examined the writing on the label. But the mystery only deepened. He opened a door, put his head through and shouted for help. A ginger-haired youth came in and examined the bottle. ‘French,’ he said, and went out. ‘He says it’s French,’ the landlord told us in confidence. ‘But you can never trust a f***ing ginge — that’s what I say.’

My phone rang. My mother. After being on the market for just over a year, the house I’ve been living and working in for the past 20 years was sold ten minutes ago. That’s it. It’s the end of an era. A bend in the road. My boy’s grown up. I’m leaving Devon. Possibly England.

The customer was still puzzling over the wine list. ‘What about this here Savig-non Cabinet,’ he said. ‘Is that French?’

More articles from: Jeremy Clarke | this section

Print this article  |  Email to a friend  |  Permalink  |   Comments (1)

Post this entry to:   del.icio.us | Digg | Newsvine | NowPublic | Reddit

Advertisement

Spectator Business | Apollo Magazine

Corporate | Advertising | Privacy | Terms

Spectator, 22 Old Queen Street, London, SW1H 9HP

All Articles and Content Copyright ©2008 by The Spectator | All Rights Reserved