Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  To the uninformed the Star could therefore be a pretty unwelcoming place – smoke filled and functionally decorated, it tended to attract exactly the same, grufty male clientele each night. Occasionally the brewery would treat punters to a band on Saturday or project the odd championship title boxing fight onto a temporary screen for the selected few. The regulars were not an easy group to integrate yourself with, however as a friend of ‘Little Jacko’, most people were at least tolerant.

  The majority of customers stood around the large bar each session, chain smoking and occupying the same position night in, night out. Many drinkers worked (to afford the frequency of their visits) either at the steelworks or in a physically demanding manufacturing role. A high percentage would call in straight from work still covered in black oxide, safe in the knowledge that it was so Spartan inside the pub, no one worried about a little soot. The appearance of a few females at the weekend often added to the atmosphere. Sometimes it added to the tension. If a fracas escalated, everyone knew fights were taken outside - or Fritzy would step in to resolve matters.

  One of my favourite of his sayings was, “This is the last time I am asking you using my voice...” Given that he only ever used this phrase when he was stood next to the till, the implication was that he was about to reach out for that infamous wooden bat.

  Scunthorpe bars were very different environments to the Nene College social club where practically anything was tolerated. Codes of conduct and social expectations needed to be unlearned and repositioned. It didn’t take long for me to realise how uncomfortable I was listening to stories about someone getting clubbed with a baseball bat, or hearing about the best way to screw the council out of more money. As a result, I found myself responding to such diatribe with misplaced sarcastic suggestions and flippant comments which would inevitably get me into trouble. As the months passed and our patronage demonstrated our commitment to the bar, I inexplicably began to play a particularly dangerous game to endure an environment I quite liked but didn’t understand. I exaggerated the observed social differences, celebrating my own so-called poshness by occasionally picking up on other drinkers’ use of grammar. I enjoyed calling lads with a reputation for violence by their real names if I could work them out.

  Likeable rogue Ed Baines who was always in the paper for fighting, would be greeted, “Edwardo, my good fellow, excellent to see you again.”

  Particularly infuriating for others was the growing inclination to correct errors in their diction. During conversations with sometimes monosyllabic friends of friends, I would unexpectedly interrupt them mid-flow and rather pedantically say, “Err it may be only semantics lads, but it is important nonetheless, I think what the phrase ‘dog eats dog’ actually means is... “

  Alternatively, I would interject to point out, “The correct pronunciation is tel-ee-graph, not what I am hearing - which is tel-graph.”

  It was extraordinary that anyone tolerated me at all! It was a bumbling attempt at overplaying what I regarded as my natural self, mistakenly thinking an upper class accent would somehow endear me to everyone. It was obvious I was no tough-nut, nor did I wish to pretend to be (for fear it may be tested), so instead I unwittingly exaggerated my background and lack of courage in an effort to make it seem funny. This was met with only moderate success and although I was dismissed by everyone for being ‘Little Botch’s toffy-nosed mate’; I was secretly rather chuffed at having my own tag. In my mind, it had taken just a few months regular drinking in the pub to attract a nickname - even if it was a lengthy twenty-six letter one.

  Inevitably, one or two of my pompous asides were capable of inflaming a situation and gradually it became clear my misplaced humour had to be very carefully managed. Particularly given that as each night (and each beer) progressed, my ability to make rational judgements about when to apply it diminished. Normally Annie had a great instinct for anticipating when things were likely to get a little out of hand and would subtly tell me when to calm it down. However, as she was inclined to stay in with her parents mid-week, I was left pretty much to my own devices. During the most awkward of these situations I’d attempt to discharge any potential aggression by delivering the corniest joke possible (the poorer the better), followed instantly with a high pitched shrill laugh which was copied from Tom Hulce in the Amadeus film. The Mozart laugh was pretty much a last line of defence, left in my kit bag for those ‘just in case situations’. This was a piercing cackle of a laugh, loud and unpleasant, almost impossible to avoid. It provided entertainment for no-one except for the person brave enough to deliver its jarring sounds. It was however effective as it usually stumped the people in the immediate vicinity, like some kind of shrill whistle capable of freezing people in their tracks. The problem was, like all good whistles, other people would hear it further afield and without knowledge of the feeble joke which had preceded it; they’d invariably think I was a being twat and spend the rest of the night giving me evil looks.

  The very real possibility that I could one day push things too far and get seriously beaten up, never once spoilt my enjoyment of these nights in the Star. Even though I was unemployed and living at my girlfriend’s parents’ house at the time; it still didn’t put a dent in things. In many ways, it was quite a comfortable existence. Technically it may have looked like mine and Annie’s relationship was in a state of limbo, yet somehow it flourished. I recognised Annie was enjoying catching up with her family and friends and I was enjoying seeing her so at ease. With lots of time on our hands, the two of used to invent daft little games to keep ourselves entertained. One of our favourites was a word game called ‘fifteen’. This required one person to describe what they imagined their life would be like at a given point in the future; while the other listened, using a digital watch to time precisely how long it took them to respond. Each person playing would take it in turns to have a go. To ensure you didn’t over-think your answer the winner was always the person who provided their answer in the shortest time. The only rules were that your response had to be truthful, it had to make sense and you had to reply as soon as you were asked using exactly 15 words. Any more or any less and you were out. The counting of words using your fingers was also not allowed.

  After a few drinks this game usually got people talking and was a great way of gaining an insight into someone’s thoughts without being too intrusive. Because you were competing against the clock you had no choice but talk really quickly and say the first thing that popped into your head, which was often very revealing. Annie normally hated being pressurised and wasn’t a competitive person, but excelled at this game possibly because she rarely felt the need to censor her own thoughts.

  “It’s your turn Charlie… eight years from today… starting now,” Annie said.

  “Err, Settled, down, with, you, and, a, few, kids, in, a, big, house, doing, well, in, my, job,” I answered.

  “Unlucky, you were fairly quick but used seventeen words – so it doesn’t count,” she said.

  “Damn, I really thought I’d mastered it. Alright, here’s one for you, what about… twenty years from today… starting now,”

  Annie smiled and then said “Sitting at the dining room table with all my children around me, laughing and joking.” All fifteen words carefully delivered in less than six seconds.

  There was only one occasion when I can ever remember her struggling with this game. It was early spring in 1986.

  “Annie, a quick fire game of fifteen before we go out to the pub …three months from today… starting now,” I said.

  This was a tough call. We both knew that the nearer to present day, the harder it was to answer because you were less able to use your imagination.

  “We, will, be…” followed by a long pause. “I, think, we’ll, have…” again nothing. “Sorry I’ll start again,” she said, making two more aborted attempts before conceding “I really don’t know.”

  “What, don’t you know about … is it about us?” I said, cloying my way out of the game,
back into the present day.

  “No, no, don’t be daft Charlie, it’s just that I don’t… I honestly haven’t got a clue what will be different by this summer.”

  “We’ll probably be sat here in your mum’s kitchen, still playing this bloody game!” I said, attempting a joke which we both realised rang uncomfortably true.

  While our relationship continued to thrive, tensions between Claire and Stuart were becoming evident. During our Saturday night gatherings in the Star, arguments between the two of them were getting so frequent that Annie and I began to wonder about their long-term compatibility. Claire lacked my girlfriend’s carefree nature and Stuart eventually admitted that he was starting to feel a little restricted by her.

  Stuart didn’t drink a great deal in those days because he enjoyed driving his Mk1 Escort too much. However given that Annie and I had a far greater tolerance for alcohol, built up through heavy drinking sessions at Nene and Ilfracombe; an early start on a Saturday night with the two of us meant he would sometimes consume six or seven pints of lager-shandy a night and end up over the legal driving limit anyway. One weekend which was memorable for the late arrival of about four-inches of snow, my girlfriend and I spent most of the evening attempting to pacify a quarrelsome Claire and Stuart by sharing anecdotes about how much fun we’d had working as waiters. The more we reminisced, the more excited we became as we began to consider the possibility of spending one final summer season working in Ilfracombe. A season in North Devon, basking in one of the sunniest places in England, with all our accommodation and meals provided and getting paid for the privilege! It was an attractive proposition, which we believed could be made even more fun if we had others on board. We were confident we could find work for the four of us and stressed just how much easy money could be made from a combination of wages and tips from the hotel guests. We chatted for hours about the idea, with Stuart in particular asking lots of questions about the hotel and the working conditions.

  Mindful of the sub-zero conditions, no one was in a rush to leave the bar after last orders and brave the weather. Eventually a slightly inebriated Stuart offered us a lift home, reassuring us he was still okay to drive. Beer brains in charge, it was agreed by all that a carefully managed exit was preferable to a long cold walk home. Stuart would drive and I would navigate, with neither of us really in any fit state to do either.

  Outside the conditions were treacherous so Annie and Claire sheltered under the protection of the entrance porch as we went to find the car. It was like a sheet of ice underfoot and Stuart and I both fell over during the treacherous walk to his Escort. The Star car park was usually pretty empty by this time, but on this night it was completely chocker after many drinkers had sensibly abandoned their cars because of the heavy snow. Once inside the safety of his now frozen icebox, we were further handicapped by thick frost on the inside and outside of the windscreen. Scratching a panel the size of The Highway Code booklet to see through, Stuart turned the reluctant engine over and began his attempt to gradually nudge the car out. We quickly realised we had no traction and were totally unable to estimate how close we were to any of the other parked cars because of the atrocious visibility.

  Our departure proved predictably problematic and was hindered by my own misdirection. During our ‘carefully managed exit’, Stuart slid, glided and shunted his way into three different cars, badly damaging his own in the process. To begin with we reversed slap bang into the car parked directly behind us. This was certainly down to driver error. For our second incident, we skated helplessly across the compressed snow in true ‘Hollywood Slow-Mo’ knocking ourselves against another car - this was definitely down to the icy conditions. The third collision, I have to say, was totally my fault. For some inexplicable reason I’d left my passenger door wide open while we tried to get out and then watched in disbelief as its jutting frame scraped along the side of a metallic black Golf GTi, removing much of the paintwork and all of the door furniture. Memories of the demolition of Matt Buckley’s sports car steamrolled their way back into my mind. By the time we’d resigned ourselves to walking the half mile trip home, the car park looked like a breaker’s yard. Cold iron and fragments of broken Perspex were strewn across the icy snow. All three vehicles had been dislodged from their original parking bays; all compromised by our pitiful attempts to get out of the sodding car park. We did seriously contemplate doing a runner, disappearing into the night as fast as the arctic conditions would allow, but were shouted down by Annie and Claire who insisted we return to the pub, talk to each of the owners and come clean.

  I gave Stuart the best part of a week’s dole money to help pay for repairs, but he still ended up having to sell his beloved Escort to raise the funds to fix all four vehicles. His relationship with Claire ended in the days which followed. Within the space of one week, poor Little Jacko had no car, no girlfriend, was broke and was having to work every weekend for the foreseeable future to clear all the debts this night had generated. As you can imagine the experience did nothing to address my aversion to driving. On the upside, this memorable affair did provide the three of us with all the impetus we needed to jump on board a National Express coach early April and head down to the West Country in time for the start of the holiday season.

  8. A Blast From the Past

  Annie and I had already worked in Ilfracombe as students for a couple of summer seasons to pay off our overdrafts, but travelling back there after the best part of a year unemployed I saw the town in a completely different light. Perhaps it was the dramatic contrast in scenery, when compared to the dour seventies’ concrete buildings which characterised Scunthorpe town centre; maybe I was just being more observant. Either way, Ilfracombe this summer appeared to be more picturesque than ever. I’d forgotten so much in just one year and it was great to be back feeling the blustery winds against your face, hearing the sound of seagulls up above and seeing the breath-taking coastal scenery and rugged cliff tops.

  Arriving as we were, well before the main holiday season had started, we could detect a sense of an awakening about the place. It was as if Ilfracombe was emerging from the same long, winter hibernation that we were. As the Easter holidays kicked in, shops, arcades and bars were all gradually coming to life. Locals were out painting shop front fascia’s and tidying up entrances in anticipation of the cash-rich ‘grockles’ arrival.

  The most impressive of all the big Ilfracombe hotels was the Imperial Hotel, situated slap bang on the sea front. It would provide gainful employment and full board for Annie, Stuart and me for the next seven months. In exchange, we would work hard as waiters across three split shifts, six days a week. Each service was a frenetic rush which required you to lay tables, take orders, serve twenty people, wash up and relay tables in one compressed ninety minute sitting. Very quickly you learned that by being nice to your guests, you would not only find it easier to get through each intense service, but also secure more tips at the end of the week.

  Ted Kingston, the boss and owner of the hotel was a formidable character. He was the former vice-chairman of a well-known football club which he’d personally helped save from liquidation. In the 1950s he’d invested in a small guest house and soon, through hard work and determination, had enough money to buy the imposing one hundred and twenty room Imperial Hotel which he managed like a military base. This was his hotel, his rules and his way of working. Although it was run on a very tight budget, it was always well maintained. Inside the hotel, the boss’s high standards were never compromised. All waiting staff were issued with uniforms and trained on how to present meals by full silver service.

  Most of the (elderly) guests who visited were from coach parties, shipped in and out on a weekly basis. The boss at best tolerated them. No one ever argued with Mr K. He was a true force of nature whose default volume was a rumbling boom. On the rare occasion where a customer service issue had been flagged up and someone was stupid enough to demand to see the manager, Mr K would storm downstairs incensed at being interrupted
. Then, in a very black and white manner he would underline that if a guest didn’t like the staff, the room, the food, the facilities or whatever else they were complaining about then, it was time to “Pack your bags and get out my bloody hotel right now.”

  Although no one ever stood up to him, every single one of his transient summer staff completely respected his authority because of his un-wavering support for us against any complaint from a mere paying guest.

  We would all enjoy stories about his resolute nature. Annoyed at people using his foyer toilets as a public convenience, he placed a big sign on the door to explain the lavatories were only for hotel guests. When this didn’t work, he fastened a lock on the outside of the door. When one poor chap, bursting for the loo, dared to venture in to the hotel he locked him in there for the best part of a morning. The following week, someone had avoided incarceration, so the boss rugby tackled him as he tried to escape, hands still wet from his attempts to wash them using Mr K’s own tap water.

  After daytime service, waiters would either collapse on the lawned gardens in front of the hotel or head back to our dubious digs. The Staff House was a great, drab monolith of a building which stood behind the Imperial and in the shadows of the boss’s own house. Its one redeeming quality was because it was so vile, none of the permanent hotel staff ever dreamed of venturing into it. You could sneak friends in and let them stay in one of its ropey vacant rooms without any hassle. The place should have been condemned and everyone who visited it agreed it wasn’t fit to live in. There were large structural cracks along some of the walls and old rotten sash windows with broken glass which didn’t shut properly. All the ground floor rooms, used for storing old furniture, were so mouldy inside they’d been barricaded off. Cheap push-in timer switches had been put on every other landing to ensure no electricity was ever wasted. Because each timer only provided a few seconds of light, you had to sprint between the uncarpeted floors. Further up the five storey structure things weren’t much better. There was only one filthy bathroom for eighteen people. At least this season, the Scunthorpe contingent were in situ from week-one. This meant we were able to unlock the vacant building, vault up the steep slippery stairs, nick the best bits of furniture and drag it into the most habitable of all the musty rooms.