Day 3: The Local revisited

Friday 2 October 2009

My local is a grim place. A cavernous pub in the midst of a former temperance zone (a fact cab drivers love to impart to me, although none of then can ever answer my question: “What, so does that mean no one can build another pub here ever again?” Seemingly not.) 

Mostly, it follows the rule ‘big pub – no punters’. The exception is on a Saturday when they show the football; I once made the mistake of bringing The Uncle here on a Saturday for a swift half. The door creaked open and about 20 pairs of bloodshot eyes blinked in the sunlight. Thick black velveteen drapes pocked with fag burns were drawn across the windows, with the odd chink of light illuminating the clouds of dust swirling in the stale air. Behind the bar, a one-armed barman was cleaning glasses by spitting in them and wiping them out with his shirt tails (alright… I’m exaggerating now, but the rest is, I swear, spot on). Into this we strode, while the jaundiced, bloodshot eyes suspiciously marked our progress. The Uncle then unexpectedly piped up: “Do you think they have a wine list?” Oh The Uncle. He does need to be watched. I made him shut up and sit down somewhere where he was less likely to be assaulted with a pool cue and went to deal with the drinks situation myself.  

As it happened, there was a wine list. It consisted of two wines. The barman read them out to me: red or white. When I finally brought the red wine over along with my manly lager, The Uncle had been joined by a selection of grey-fleshed people of indeterminate age. “Look at this!” he announced. “It’s fascinating – these people all look like Cockney gangsters from Eastenders!” (all this said in his fairly rubbish approximation of a Cockney accent). Never have I dragged him out of an establishment so quickly.

I have been back since. Once when it snowed and London shut down for the day and there really wasn’t anything else to do (it also marked my first foray into a London pub wearing wellies), and once for a dreadful acoustic night… the highlight of which was being served a G&T in a proper lady-glass circa. 1972. What prevents more frequent visits to the local is the unforgivable quality of their lager. Do they store it next to a furnace? Do they walk around with it stuck up their jumpers all day? It embodies my pet hate: It is hot, tangy lager. It is to be avoided at all costs.

The younger sister, The Jammy Dodger, is staying this weekend. She is having issues and, aside from an initial yelp of “WHY THE FUCK NOT?”, when I initially told her I was off the sauce, she agreed it might do her good to have a sober weekend. There are limited resources in the local area: there is The Local and there is The Curry Place. That is all. I decided to test the theory that my relatives and The Local are incompatible.

First there was the matter of getting there. The Jammy Dodger operates on a need-to-know basis... and she needs to know everything. I am currently saving up to either have her apprenticed to Derren Brown or to have her brain implanted with a very small sat-nav device. “How far is it to the pub? How long will that take? If we go to the cash point along the way how much longer will that take? I know it’s the other side of the station but where is the station? How much do you think the first round will cost? How far is it from the pub to the curry house? How much do think we’ll pay in the curry house. And how far is it from the curry house back home?”  She reminds me of that line in Esmé by Saki: "I am perfectly certain that at the Last Judgment Constance will ask more questions than any of the examining Seraphs.” Occasionally, when I feel I can take no more, I say things like: “About seven miles. A hundred and seven pounds. Maybe two to three hours?” And she stops dead. Her eye widen and she says “YOU. ARE. FUCKING. JOKING.”

When we eventually arrived at the local, we ordered a pint of diet coke, a pint of lime and soda and a pile of napkins to staunch the flow of blood from my over-questioned eardrums. “It’s not that bad in here. What you going on about?” hissed The Jammy Dodger. And, fair play, the carpet didn’t just look freshly hoovered, it looked positively freshly steam cleaned. The clientele looked pleasantly mixed and, while it wasn’t bulging at the seams, pretty much all the tables were occupied. “Good tunes!!” announced The Jammy Dodger of the louder than strictly necessary music, treating me to a pitying look and clarifying “This is sung by a man called KANYE WEST.” Mr West is, I believe, a modern-day pop star. I am not very down with the kids. The Jammy Dodger, however, seems extremely fond of his repertoire... I thought they should probably turn him down a bit.

There’s a new landlord as well. A startling facsimile of Al Murray’s The Pub Landlord, which had us both looking nervously behind us for a film crew. He was a jovial chap though who tried to give us the hard sell on Tuesday's bingo night, killer line being “And I...” (said whilst caressing my forearm with the call-sheet) will be calling the numbers myself!” Go on then Al – Sold. And good on him: one week clean carpets, bingo and Kanye: next week the world.  They also do a pub quiz, which The Lodger seems keen on trying. Again, pub quizzes are not generally something I try sober.

So, second pub of the detox, and no booze. And then a curry with no Cobra. Even though it would have eased the pain of The Jammy Dodger’s endless questioning. On leaving the curry place: “How long will it take us to get home?” Argh! The same amount of time it took us to get here! “So how long is that?”

Truly I am on a roll. One question though: what's your local like?

Units dodged: I’m going to say eight... that would have been three pints of hot, tangy lager in the local, and a lovely big, cold bottle of Cobra with my jalfezi. Mmmmm.

The Unit Dodger