Life Behind Bars (11 page)

Dennis’ recording was the first
in the series and had huge press coverage before it was aired.  He
arranged an after show party for all his family and friends.  Everyone was
as excited as he was and wanted to share in his glory.  All, that is,
except Debbie his wife.  She had hated the whole experience and learned a
lot about her life that she didn’t like, and she had every intention of
changing it.  Number one to be changed was Dennis but he didn’t know it
yet!

The show was a triumph for the
network, for the ratings, for the town.  But sadly, not for Dennis and
Debbie.  He didn’t, and still doesn’t realise what a prat he made of
himself.  She on the other hand, systematically changed every bad thing in
her life.  Finally the wife swapped, yep!  She swapped her husband
for a producer she’d met on the show.  The irony is that because of the
new husband’s work,
she
goes to all the A-list parties and meets all
those people Dennis so longed to rub shoulders with.

But Dennis is a legend in his own
mind and for a small town, as near to celebrity status as most of us are likely
to get.  And let’s face it, he wasn’t bad for business. 

There are still people who will
come in just to meet the TV chef, not many, but a few . . .

Riding lessons . . .

Being married had never hampered
Dennis’ pursuit of women, so being single changed nothing.  But, he was a
‘five minutes to closing’ kinda guy.  He would literally, five minutes
before the last bell, spy any woman not obviously attached and go in for the
kill.  It always worked and he seldom had to buy them a drink.  But
oh, he captured some horrors.  I know this is sexist but there is no other
way to describe Dennis’ conquests.

Most pubs have a Sunday club and
we were no exception.  The die-hards would congregate on Sunday morning to
cure their hangover and to carry out the post mortem of the night before. 
Dennis was always first to arrive and always his conquests were featured,
without exception.

However, this particular morning,
although he was first to arrive he was very subdued.  Thinking his
hangover to be worse than usual, I gave him a double shot of Jagermeister (our
tried and tested remedy.)  The rest of the cronies dribbled in and the
post mortem of the previous night’s escapades began.  Dennis was unusually
quiet and reticent about his antics despite being repeatedly quizzed.  It
was the consensus of opinion that for once he had failed to score.  If
only!

About an hour into the session,
he looked like he’d seen a ghost; he jumped up, gave a girlie squeal and bolted
to his kitchen.  What the hell?  There, standing at the bar was an
elderly woman, and I mean elderly.  She looked like she’d had a helluva
hard paper round and held a riding crop in her hand.

“Is Dennis in?” she coyly asked,
well as coyly as any seventy year old could (honest!)

“
No,” says I.  “He
doesn’t work on a Sunday.”

“Will he be in later?”

“Not sure.” I replied, trying to
stifle a laugh and glaring at those not trying so hard.

“Oh, well.  He left this at
mine this morning,” slamming the riding crop on the bar. 

It took almost an hour to
persuade him to come out and face the music. 

A riding crop.  I shudder to
think. 

Extremely so!

The advent of extreme sports has
taken the country completely by storm and surprise.  It is not uncommon to
see guys leaping across stairwells and flying across basement areas.  Even
the most unlikely characters indulge in these past-times.  Before, we
would have just called it
‘being pissed’
and
‘a hazardous journey
home.’
  Not so now.

We had two experts in this
hobby.  The two Lees.  Lee number one was a cyclist.  He spent
almost 90% of his free time on, under, or lying beside his bike.  It was
his absolute pride and joy.  He stripped it down daily.  Washed,
polished and re-assembled it.  Strangely, he always had a few nuts and
bolts left over.

Now this guy could go at the
speed of light; he would pedal for all he was worth and every junction or red
light was a challenge.  He constantly battled against the traffic and
always had to be first away.  He would take on everything, from a Smart
Car to a Ferrari but . . .  he was a danger to himself and to every other
road user as he had absolutely no fear and usually no brakes.  Remember
the extra nuts and bolts.

It was his ambition to compete in
the Tour de France.  He would have more chance in a Tour de Farce. 
Lee number one went everywhere on his bike, absolutely everywhere and if he was
a danger when sober, can you imagine what he was like after a few beers? 

Lee number two was a skateboard
freak.  Since receiving his first board when he was a lowly seven, he had
never walked anywhere again.  Like Lee number one, his boards were his
pride and joy.  He had them in all shapes and sizes, all colours and
creeds.  He had competition boards, exhibition boards and boards from Argos. 
Seriously, he had common or garden boards that were for taking the dog for a
walk.  Yes, the dog had a board too.  He had a board for going to the
off-licence and even a tandem board in case he ever got lucky.

While Lee number one was a danger
to road users, Lee number two was a danger to everyone else.  They pretty
much endangered the total population of the town between them.  Wasn’t I
the lucky one to have them as regulars?

The journey to the pub was always
an adventure.  They would synchronize watches, leave at the same time and
using some peculiar handicap system, race to the bar; the loser buying the
first round.

During the evening they would
have a beer then race round the town, starting and finishing at the pub door,
annihilating everything in their wake.  As the night wore on they grew
more and more reckless.  Wheels came off, people were knocked to the
ground and it wasn’t unusual to see them going hell for leather, sparks flying,
with a baying mob after them.

It was time to do
something.  The previous evening, being absolutely pissed, Lee number two
went hurtling through the beer garden, over the fence and into the garden next
door.  Unfortunately our neighbours were having a barbeque and didn’t
appreciate an idiot on a three-wheeled skateboard, (he had managed to lose a
wheel,) land in their ornamental pool.  This was followed by a crash and
the sound of breaking glass, his BFF had failed to stop yet again, (remember
the nuts and bolts) and had crashed into the side of their conservatory. 
Thankfully no-one was hurt except them, but they didn’t count.  Something
definitely had to be done.

I had been warned by the
licensing police that these two came under the same laws as any drink driver
and I could be held responsible.  I was at my wits end.  What could
be done with this maniacal pair?

Let’s look at the
situation.  Here we had two single blokes in their late 20’s; both
reasonably good looking, both intelligent (well that’s debatable,) both
popular, so what was missing?  What would stop them racing round the town
like a couple of ‘Road Runners’ on acid?  What would calm them down? 
Who would stop the feckers ruining my good name with the police?  A woman. 
But not just any woman.

I had to come up with someone so
fit she would stop this pair in their tracks.  But how?  Where was I
going to get a stunner (or preferably two) who would understand their
enthusiasm for speed and danger but would keep it in check?  I have to say
for once I was stumped.

This is where fate lent a
hand.  Edinburgh during the Festival is buzzing with life and excitement
and people from all walks of life.  And we always enjoyed a big night out
in town during this time.  Starting with a show and then basically
drinking our way from ‘Princes Street to Oblivion.’ 

This year we had chosen to go see
‘The He-She’s from Taiwan.’  Now this show was fantastic.  It was
fabulous, funny and went at such a pace.  And the stars of the show were
two ‘Roller-Skating Divas,’ two of the most gorgeous creatures
imaginable.  The two Lee’s were hooked.  Completely and utterly
hooked.  What more could a bloke ask for?  The most stunning, sexy
girls . . . and wheels!

For the next four weeks they
spent every night at the show and joined the cast afterwards to party, and this
crowd could party.  I was never sure if at this stage they actually knew
what a He-She was.  But, hey ho!  They weren’t kids and our town was
quieter and much safer without the marauding wheelers.

But, all good things come to an
end and the Festival was wrapping up.  Dear God, the thought of them coming
back, and heartbroken at that, didn’t bear thinking about.  But were we in
for a shock.

On the last night of the show, we
were visited by two most exotic creatures, dressed in oriental lycra and
vaguely familiar. 

“We’ve just come to say goodbye,”
said the smaller of the two.

“Goodbye?  Hello would be a
start!”
Says I.

“Don’t say you don’t recognise
us?”

Jesus, it’s not often I’m stumped
for words, but standing before me were, yes, you’ve guessed it!  The two
newest cast members of the ‘He-She’s from Taiwan’ and very ladylike they were
too . . .  

Now that’s what you call
“Extreme.”

Team Games

The traditional pub games;
cribbage, bar skittles, dominoes and darts are very much in decline and have
been taken over by pool and Wii nights.  However, the older style pubs
still maintain domino and darts teams and if you ask any publican, they are the
bane of his life, especially the Women’s Darts Team.  The ladies team
consists of a pool of about fifteen women and if you study these teams across
the country you will find their make up is in exactly the same proportions, but
with differing accents.

Firstly, there are the Captain
and Vice-Captain.  These two pseudo-lezzies have absolute power over the
rest of their team-mates and always, always dress the same way.  Jeans
from the market, usually two pairs for a fiver. (One to wear and one to wash.) 
A sweat shirt in winter and a polo shirt in summer with, of course, the team
name or logo.  These garments were usually bought when a new licensee took
over and they conned he or she into spending a couple of hundred pounds on the
promise of all their business.  It is quite easy therefore, to work out
how long the present landlord has been in residence.  Check the colour
chart for the fade factor.

Back to the team.  We have
the two top dogs then we have four or five veterans, who have been team members
since before the league started and now, if ever, couldn’t hit a barn door at
twenty paces.  Why?  Their eyes have gone, their aim has gone and
usually after a couple of half’s, they’re gone.  However, they are still
an integral part of the team, they can keep score and they know the drinks
round off by heart.  Usually they bring their knitting and are of the
opinion that ‘darts night gets you away from him for a night.’

The next four or five are
normally daughters of the veterans, usually single mums who can play reasonably
well.  After all, they cut their back teeth on a ‘Tungsten Double Barrel
Arrow’ and were fed crisps and coke from the time they were weaned.  These
women are the backbone of any darts team.  They dress similarly to their
mothers but without the team logo.  Usually a sweatshirt from JB Sport’s
sale which is invariably navy or black, (think kids,) and trainers from the
market.  They gossip about their kids, offers on at the supermarket and on
darts night the main topic of conversation is the Tart.  The highlight of
their year is the team weekend away which they save for religiously.

Finally, we have the Tart and her
two fat pals.  Every team has this combination.  The two fat lassies
are the publican’s delight.  They can consume a box of crisps before the
grub goes out at half time and hate a drink or ten.  They are in their
early twenties, work in the local fish filleting plant and Tuesday night is their
main night out.  They are close pals with the final member of the team,
who epitomises glamour and everything they wish they were.  We shouldn’t
call her a tart but she is always on the prowl and her uniform is very
different from the rest of the group.  She wears skinny jeans, skimpy
glittery tops and always, heels.  Make-up to perfection and big hair. 
A look she perfected fifteen years ago and has never seen the need to change.

So that’s the team and be it a
home or away, the line up for both teams is exactly the same.  Darts night
takes the same format, week in week out.  All members arrive at around 7pm, except for the Tart.  She is always late; the babysitter didn’t arrive, or the cunt
of an ex-husband was late, or one of the kids was missing.  There is a
reason for this.  First on the agenda is the paying of subs, outing money
and raffle tickets.  She knows the two fat lassies will divvy up for her
and she’ll settle up later.  Of course she seldom does but the fat pals
are so delighted to be her chosen two, they don’t mind paying for the
privilege.  Of course the rest of the team get mad about this, but to no
avail, her posse is united. 

They are a fairly good team and
win more than they lose.  During the course of the night they separate
into little groups, gossiping, chatting and generally having a good evening,
but the Tart circles round the bar.  If there’s a men’s darts team in the
other bar, she has won a watch.  Drinks paid for all evening and she just
nips back and forth between her crowd and the guys.  She has it down to
perfection and there are very few nights she doesn’t go home with a trophy;
nothing to do with darts.

But all this is simply practice
for the ‘Big One.’  Every year the girls go off to Blackpool for a weekend
darts tournament.  They save weekly for this outing and usually have
enough for travel, accommodation and spending money and the chant for that week
is.