by Sloan, Phil
With our beer goggles firmly on, the six of us just cannot see the potential for a damn good kicking in this drinking establishment so we approach the old crone behind the bar.
‘It’s my round gents, so choose your weapons!’ shouts Village. The following is what was ordered up, using an Enigma code breaking machine to decipher the actual alcoholic drink required:
1] VAL……Vodka And Lemonade (AKA Valerie, as in ‘Dob us in a Valerie, cocker baby winkle)
2] Supersonic……Gin and Tonic.
3] JD and coke……Jack Daniels and Coke, bit ‘kin obvious that one.
4] Gold Watch…Scotch.
5] Large Rouge….Half a vat of red wine.
6] Uri Top…(A Pint of Stella Artois with a splash of lemonade. Uri Geller is mockney rhyming slang for Stella. For the more politically aware chap you could also use Nelson Mandela)
With a round like that it’s no wonder that half the blokes in here want to knock the snot out of us, while the other half laugh and would then stick the boot in themselves. We should have ordered six pints of heavy to at least make an effort to try to fit in.
******DRINKS INTERLUDE******DRINKS INTERLUDE******
At this point in the proceedings here is a short do’s and don’ts list for ordering drinks on a stag do:
DO: Pace yourself. It’s a marathon not a sprint, so feel free to order a bottle instead of a pint. A man has to know his limitations and keep within them.
DO: Order regular strength ‘cooking lager’ rather than the stronger stuff available. It’s a better session brew. It will still get the job of intoxication done but over a much longer time of supping.
DO: Avoid entering the spirit world for as long as possible. As tempting as it is to hit the top shelf early in the day it really is not the way forward.
DON’T: Order a Lager Shandy EVER. Yeah it is a refreshing alternative when behind closed doors at home where no one else needs to know. On a stag do you will have the piss ripped out of you by the rest of the gang, for at least half an hour for shouting one in.
DON’T: Order Lager & Lime. Enough said. It ruins the taste of a perfectly good pint and again opens you up to verbal abuse. The same rule applies for white wine spritzers, alco-pops, etc.
DON’T: Drink anything non-alcoholic. This is all shades of incorrect.
******DRINKS INTERLUDE OVER******DRINKS INTERLUDE OVER*****
We get served and sit at a table mid-way between the young hard nuts screwing us out and the old hard nuts who are also giving us the evil eye.
This table seems to be in the ‘no man’s land’ of the drinker that separates the two different groups of head cases.
I wonder if on Christmas Day they have a truce, kind of like during the trench warfare of World War I. Someone brings in a football to have a bit of a kick about with. Jumpers for goalposts! All good clean fun. They then have the traditional pub lunch of roast turkey flavoured crisps and buy each other a pint.
Half an hour later they are battering each other senseless in the street, losing more molars and parts of their anatomy. Merry Christmas everyone!
I have a moment of clarity and wonder what the hell we are doing in this scuzzy tavern? It is all going to go Pete Tong in a matter of minutes.
As the toilets are down at the Plague boy’s end, it’s a racing cert that when you have to go and empty your bladder, this will result in a definite mugging that will also empty your wallet. We all cross our legs and aim to get our drinks down us in record time so we can get The F out of D (The Fuck out of Dodge).
We sit there feeling like we’ve accidently entered the pub on the moors in that top movie ‘An American Werewolf in London.’ The two unwary tourists enter the place to a right frosty reception and it goes completely silent until they are then warned to ‘stay on the path boys.’
I’m no mind reader but it seems everyone in the bar wants us to Foxtrot Oscar and sharpish. The six of us English lads are as popular as a fart in a spacesuit in here. But so what?
We sit there and pretend we are not cacking our whacks and front it out. The conversation as usual soon turns nonsensical. We laugh at how the number in the stag party has been whittled right down as if we were starring in some ‘stalk and slash’ horror movie from the 1980’s. Who is going to reach the end credits and what body parts will be left on them?
We all decide to grab another round as closing time is fast approaching. The clientele in this ‘inn of doom’ seem to tolerate us a little, even though we are still getting stared at by the scrotal little savages by the pool tables.
The gang is all cool with this, except for Amnesty who is getting the right hump by now. He keeps glancing over their way and mutters to himself under his breath. All the signs are there that very shortly he is going to go completely radio rental.
It looks like the red mist is starting to descend. Like Dr Bruce Banner he is spinning out of control and you won’t like him when he is angry. No good will come of it.
Amnesty is fed up with being bogged out by the plague of plagues and jumps up saying ‘Right I’m going to show those little twats who is the main man in here!’
He marches down to the back of the pub looking like a man possessed. He has well and truly lost what little plot he had left. His face looks like thunder and it is very likely someone is going to get a punch. This situation is only going to end with flashing blue lights, sirens and bags of donated blood.
He approaches one of the pool tables and slams down a twenty pound note with the words ‘I bet this twenty spot I can beat any one of you bastards at pool using just one hand! Come on then who wants some of them apples?’
Amnesty has finally wigged completely out and fallen into the mouth of insanity. What the hell is he thinking? Even if he really can beat them he will still end up in a fist induced coma.
The plagues stand there looking shocked and confused. They’ve just been challenged by a lunatic who wants to play one handed pool in their local juicer on their table for money. Finally one of the plagues, let’s call him Bubonic, breaks the silence and puts down his own note saying ‘I’ll take that bet you massive numpty. I am the king of this table. When I beat you the lot of ya can fuck off out of here!’
About the only response we can expect from Bubonic I guess. It’s a very fitting nickname as he looks like he could end your life in a very painful way or leave you with permanent facial disfigurement. He even has scars on his chin that may well have been caused by The Black Death centuries ago but this is more realistically to have been the result of acne or too much teenage glue sniffing.
As Amnesty selects a cue from the selection leaning against the wall, a couple of the mini plagues rack up the balls and it is ‘Game On!’
We gather around the table to witness what will surely be the quickest game of pool in history, swiftly followed by the fastest hospitalisation of six pissed up blokes from down South.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER 9…..82 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1 x VODKA, A PINT OF LAGER AND A LITRE BOTTLE OF WHITE LIGHTNING CIDER
Chapter Nineteen: Playing One Handed Pool
The game of pool is mainly the domain of the true ‘geezer geezer.’ It takes years of practice to be any good at the sport which really means years of hanging about in the nearest pub drinking while honing all the skills needed to be a top pool player.
There’s so much to think about, like your stance, the way you grip the cue stick, where the balls are on the table and where you want them to end up (in the pockets obviously!)
The cue stick must have a smooth shaft (sounds a bit rude) with a well chalked tip (‘Oooooh Matron!!’) and held so your right arm is at a right angle. That’s ninety degrees to you thick bastards without a GCSE in Maths.
Basically you need to sink your seven balls and then the black before your opponent does, to win the game.
By keeping a positive mental attitude, all will be good. Breathing techniques to ensure you stay relaxed and calm during
the game are also available and should be used regularly.
Me, I ignore all the good advice above and just whack the balls as hard as I can in the vain hope that one will go down making me look like I did the shot on purpose. To be honest I just do not have the patience to play pool and find that it just gets in the way of a good pinting session.
However if you are skilled at the game there is the added bonus that it is a fantastic excuse to get out of the house and into the local drinker whenever you want. The words ‘Sorry my love I’ve got a pool match this weekend’ are a guaranteed fully stamped up pass to freedom.
Reading through all the tips and demonstrations available online what I could not find was one person that suggests playing the game with just one hand against a herd of maniacs who want to clatter you unconscious.
So the stage is set for a huge game of pool with possibly our very survival at stake.
It’s time to watch the Bubonic versus Amnesty pool grudge match of Edinburgh town. Like a one-legged man entering an arse kicking contest our Amnesty is setting himself and us, up for a mighty fall.
Bubonic can’t believe his luck and thinks you can’t play pool with just one hand. In his mind he is already spending that twenty spot on his next bag of draw.
‘It’s my boozer so I’m breaking,’ Bubonic crows as he powers the cue ball into the fifteen balls at the other end of the table. It is a fantastic break with two striped balls and one spotted ball all falling straight away. Bubonic is right good. This game is not going to take long.
‘I’ll give you a chance and be spots,’ he decides before sinking a further three of his balls until he leaves one of the spots covering the middle pocket making it even harder for his opponent.
Now it’s Amnesty’s turn. I can see this going bandy straight away and imagine him tearing the green baize of the table with his very first shot ensuring that claret is spilt within seconds.
He steps up to the table holding the cue in a vice-like grip. He takes his time then hits the cue ball which kisses one of the striped balls sending it into the top left pocket. There is a stunned silence from the plague lads.
Amnesty takes another shot one handed and another ball goes down. The cue stick seems to have become an extension of his arm and he knows exactly how hard to hit the ball. Whack! Another striped ball goes down.
By now the plagues are applauding his skill with comments like ‘He must be some sort of Paul Newman Hustler motherfucker.’ Even some of the old school gangsters by the door have wandered down to see what all the fuss is about and they cannot believe what they are witnessing.
They are all impressed and so are we. No-one has ever seen Amnesty’s party trick before. What a talent. Where did he pick this skill up from? Has he actually sold his own soul to save all of ours?
Two more shots are sunk and he is on the black already. Bubonic still has three of his balls left on the table.
Amnesty has become that evil liquid metal T-1,000 killer robot from the future in Terminator 2: Judgment Day. The cue stick must have been fused into his body creating a whole new arm/cue type thing enabling him to hit these amazing trick shots. He is playing out of his skin.
His brain must be chock full of physics shit to be working out all the angles and pulling these shots off one-handedly.
But then, disaster strikes, he hits the black ball but does not give it enough legs and it stops just short of the pocket.
Bubonic steps up confidently and starts to sink his last three spotty balls. Whether it is the spliff that he has been smoking all night or the shock of getting his backside whupped by a bloke playing with one hand, I could not tell you but his game is well off and he has a shocking visit missing his last ball, leaving a gift of a shot on the black for the Amnesty Android.
With one last smash of the cue ball Amnesty is victorious. He snatches up his winnings from the table and yells ‘OK who the fuck wants a shot of tequila?’
Unsurprisingly the whole bar takes him up on his offer. The ice is well and truly broken as we start chatting to the plagues and the older nut jobs. We find that their hearts are all in the right place, unlike their eyes, ears, noses etc.
They all want to play Amnesty the one armed king of the pool table but no one can defeat him. During a break between games I ask him ‘Fella how the hell did you pull that off?’
‘Dunno, I have been doing the one handed pool hustle for years. I won some big dough over in France once playing for cash against Johnny Foreigner. I have to be in the zone. If I’m sober I can’t relax enough and hold the cue properly. If I’m paralytic I’m worse than if I use both hands. However when I stick just enough alcohol in the tank I seem to be able to see everything clearly in my head and can whip anyone who steps up to the table one handed. Maybe I should go pro and bug out of the nine to five grind.’
Amnesty gets his five minutes of fame and we get matey with the locals. They gave us daggers when we walked in because they are fed up of boozy wankers taking over their pub during The Fringe Festival and who can blame them?
Soon the final bell rings and it is chucking out time. The barmaid yells out the old line of ‘Ain’t you got homes to go to?’ which is a polite way of telling everyone to bugger off.
The plagues invite us on to a nightclub called Zen where they know the bouncer and will get us in for nothing. Result! Sure that was the club that those hens from earlier were going to end up in.
After seeing ‘The Shite Pyramid of Geezers’ we are convinced the ladies will at least buy us a couple of pints each and/or give us a snog. Our luck must be in.
Gentlemen lead on……With only our beer blankets to keep us warm we wander off into the cold Scottish night.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 11…..71 TO GO
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: 2 PINTS, A LIGHT & BITTER AND AN ADVOCAAT
Chapter Twenty: I see the shit storm rising
We’re back in Sweaty Sock Land in the guest house in Edinburgh run by the fella with the most unconvincing rug on his head. It’s six a.m. Sunday morning and all fourteen of the stag party are at last in their beds giving it some heavy duty ZZZ time.
Some have been asleep for hours like Light and Weight in Room #1 who avoided the whole Saturday night of dodgy strippers, one handed pool matches plus moody scum bags named after The Black Death. The pair of them are both recently married with young babies and are well chuffed to get to spend so much time in the Land of Nod away from early morning feeds, endless sterilising of milk bottles, plus the constant nagging from the enemy (wife) about how they can’t go out and enjoy themselves now they have a new born who cries every hour, on the hour. This night is pure luxury to these boys and the only reason they bothered to get a pass stamped for the weekender was to finally get some unbroken SLEEP.
In the largest room in the place Room #2, four of our heroes are kipping. Kid L the groper of the poor working girl, Deviant the king of the crusty moleskins, Burke with half a concussion after head butting a lamp post and finally Kid J who has two fingers bandaged up that got broken in The Great Pyramid of Geezers topple in the afternoon. He finally sobered up after spending eight hours in the local A&E department waiting to get his digits fixed.
Room #3 sleeps three, Village, Euro and Kid M. Of the trio Kid M and his lack of being able to have a clear out in a public lavatory has had the most rest. Village and Euro went off clubbing with The Plague Kids until four o’clock meeting up with the filthy hens from the afternoon session. Village even managed to get a snog and cop a feel off some poor inebriated lass who to be frank, had a body off Baywatch but a face off Crimewatch! Mind you he is no oil painting himself. Still at least he pulled a real live woman in front of witnesses and for once no money changed hands.
In Room #4 Hit and Run are snoring away while a very distraught replacement stag, our top man, GAP is still heavily medicated after getting his jaw wired up. His lips are all fattened up, scabby and bloody and it looks like he has been French kissing a liquidiser while it was
turned on. He has lost his two front teeth, one of which will soon be hanging from Deviant’s gold chain as a fashion statement. That statement being I have no fucking fashion sense what-so-ever! GAP is having some weird old dreams due to the sedatives bombing through his battered body. It will only be when he wakes up and clocks himself in the mirror that his real nightmare will begin. His Mum back home is going to tear him a new arsehole for ruining his forthcoming big interview day with his mangled up kisser.
Finally Amnesty the one handed pool king and Mule who is covered in black boot polish are totally sound-o in the final bedroom, Room #5.
Unfortunately there is a humongous load of faeces heading their way and our happy campers are about to have their R&R very rudely interrupted.
The door to Room #2 comes crashing open and in strolls the owner carrying a baseball bat screaming ‘Wake up you dirty fuckers!’ To say he is unhappy is an understatement.
‘Get your stuff and get lost!’ he bellows. The four lads in the room are jolted awake but are totally bemused by his behaviour.
Deviant says ‘Hey mate take a chill pill. Where’s the fire? Who’s taken a shit in your handbag?’
This comment does not help as Captain Hairpiece’s face seems to go a shade redder: ‘My handbag? No one has shit in my handbag but one of you bastards has taken a dump in one of my pot plants in the hallway. There is shit everywhere, up the wall and all over the floor. This is a disgrace. My family live here, this is my home and you have treated it like the local lavatory. You have disrespected me. I will not stand for it. I want you out of my hotel NOW!’
Kid J tries to reason with him ‘Mate calm down. None of us in this room has done a plop in the hallway. There’s been some terrible mistake. We’ll all take DNA tests if you want us to prove that it wasn’t any of us.’