A new grandson, and a night in the pub
Grandson number two was delivered by caesarean section last week. Nine pounds. A boy. Clynton. He was plain Clinton to start with, but one of their more sophisticated friends suggested the alternative spelling and the suggestion was taken up. Of course the older relatives are either horrified or derisive. Ridiculous, they say, all these silly new children’s names. The world’s gone mad. What’s wrong with a good old traditional English name, like Arthur or George?
I’ve been pointing these reactionary spirits in the direction of our parish magazine. In the latest issue a correspondent listed some of the Christian names recorded in the Baptism register
between 1836 and 1900. Hocaday, anyone? Or how about Mullis, Limbrey, Carwithin or Vavasour? Girls’ names included Asenath, Andromach, Keturah, Thirza, Cotton and Gratitude. Beside all those,
Clynton sounds almost staid. Doubtless we’ll be calling him Clynt before long, anyhow. Let’s hope he grows up to be as good a shot as his famous Hollywood namesake.
Clynton makes five, all told, that my boy is responsible for feeding and clothing. He is still without a job, alas, and mired in debt. His only gainful employment is to drive his old man to the pub
once a week and pick him up again afterwards.
As well as earning a few quid, he finds the job mildly entertaining. There was a time when I wouldn’t even let my dogs see me drunk. But I’ve let myself go a bit lately, and I think he
finds the difference between the morose old git he drives into town and the burbling pantomime drunk he picks up four hours later amusing.
Last week he dropped me outside a pretty thatched country pub that was hosting a ‘blues session’. ‘What time do you want picking up?’ he said. I wasn’t sure, I said.
Eleven or 12. I’d call him a bit later and let him know.
I was among the first customers. A couple of the musicians were doing a soundcheck. ‘What’ll you have?’ said the spiky-haired barman.
I looked at the beer pumps, then I studied the spirit shelves. I had almost convinced myself that the reason for my coming out tonight was to have a pleasant chat with friends and listen to some
well-played blues. But that was all nonsense. I’d come out to get drunk. Why, I don’t know. Perhaps my chemistry is running the show these days.
I took my time studying the spirits shelf. The night before, I had been sitting with a friend at her kitchen table when she said, ‘I know!’ and raised a hand to tell the world to stand
by. She got down on all fours and put her head inside the cupboard under the sink and rooted around until she found what she was looking for right at the back — a big jamjar filled with
damsons and gin that had been there since last autumn. She poured us each a tot of the clear pink liquid and I don’t think I’ve tasted anything better for a long while. The sweetness of
the damsons perfectly complemented the sharpness of the gin.
With the memory of that damson gin in mind, I thought I’d go for something fruity and potent, and I asked the barman, rather absurdly, if he had any plum brandy. He scanned the shelves doubtfully. ‘We’ve got apple brandy,’ he said. ‘That’ll do,’ I said. ‘Double.’ So from then on it was pints of Abbot and large apple brandies like there was no tomorrow.
I have a phone with a touch screen. Sometime during the evening I somehow called my boy inadvertently. He said that when he picked up the phone all he could hear was me drunkenly and doggedly trying to explain the proverbs ‘Ne’er cast a clout till May is out’ and ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’ to a woman who spoke very little English. I have no recollection of this.
I rang him twice more after that without realising it, he said. Once he picked up the phone and all he could hear was a harmonica solo, and the last time he heard me pleading with a barman for another drink and the barman being adamant that he wasn’t going to serve me any more because I was falling about and knocking over other customer’s drinks. I don’t remember that, either.
Twenty minutes after hearing the barman refusing to serve me, my boy dutifully drew up outside the pub. He found me, he told me the next morning, sitting on the kerb, alone, shirtless, bleeding from a small head wound and drinking lager from a can. Apart from the shirtless bit, I don’t remember any of that, either.
My boy says he thinks it’s funny. I feel a bit ashamed of myself, if I’m honest. Poor Clynton with a drunk for a grandad! I intend to get a grip.
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