Life Behind Bars (12 page)

“What happens in Blackpool stays
in Blackpool!”

Really the only one this proverb
applies to is the Tart.  The most exciting thing that any of the others
could lay claim to is dodging the bill for all of them at the ‘All You Can Eat
Buffet.’  Fifteen go in and twelve pay.  She, on the other hand, is
in her element.  It’s a mixed tournament and she, and a couple of dozen
others of her ilk, have free rein with approximately two hundred guys. 

The team arrives early on
Saturday morning at the Tower Ballroom and fight tooth and nail for one of the
best tables.  They have a well planned strategy for securing their
table.  Near the toilets but not too near.  Near the bar but not too
near.  Near the food outlets and for the two fat pals this can’t be too
near.  Having come to this venue for ten years they know table 214 is the
best and table 214 is their goal.  Most years they secure it and this year
was no exception.  The main feature about table 214 is the view.  It
is a ‘see and be seen’ table and if there are any matches televised then our
team is the one seen all over the country.  For the Tart this is the
nearest to ‘A-list Celebrity’ she’s going to get.

The Captain and Vice Captain
organise with almost military precision, everyone has their job to ensure the
team are catered for.  To curtail costs, lunch is provided courtesy of the
breakfast table.  Each member has to secure a buttered roll, a boiled egg,
a slice of cheese and a banana.  This way, only drinks require to be
bought. 

Unfortunately the two fat lassies
spoiled it for the rest of them last year by almost clearing the breakfast
buffet table and wrapping their ill-gotten goods in a checked tablecloth. 
This year they were given absolute instructions and woe betide them if they got
caught again.  The two fat lassies were not happy bunnies but were too
afraid to disobey orders.  So to compensate for a light lunch they ate
their way through the breakfast buffet which of course left a shortage for the
lunch plunder by the other team members.  So they were in the dog house
again.

Not wanting to spoil the outing
and to make amends for their misdemeanour, the fat lassies offered to do the
first shift of table watching.  This was to ensure that no one nicked
their stuff and more importantly, no one nicked their table.  At all
times, except when the team were playing, someone had to remain in situ. 
Whilst a team were in play, officials looked after their belongings.  This
had come about after a gang of Eastern Europeans had plundered the venue by
simply waiting in the wings till a team went forward to play, leaving their
table empty.  They walked off with the lot.

The Captain and Vice Captain
wandered off to meet other big  lezzies.  The single mums went off to
look for prezzies.  The veterans just headed for the bar and the Tart went
on the prowl.  She was a free agent, usually the two fat lassies held her
back, always needing the loo, needing a drink, having a snack.  But today
she could cruise on her own, observe and mark out the talent and the
competition.  

Over the years she had made a few
enemies amongst the other tarts, but so what?  She could handle herself. 
Wow!  What was that on the starboard side?  The most amazing looking
guy she’d ever seen.  He was gorgeous, but shit!  It was only her
absolute worst enemy hanging round his neck.  These two had had a bit of a
skirmish last year and our tart had certainly taken second prize.  But her
enemy was looking a bit the worse for wear, had put on a bit of weight and
wasn’t looking as fit as before.  Weighing up the situation she decided
she would go for it.  But not now, time to shine on another stage.

The team were ready to play,
flexing knuckles, limbering up, throwing a few arrows, all except the fat
lassies.  They had been left for far longer than they’d expected and
gotten a little peckish, what were they to do?  They couldn’t go off for a
hot dog or a burger so they had eaten their lunch a bit early.  Ten thirty to be precise.  But someone must have come and stolen the rest when they
weren’t looking. 

Fuck!  Where was it? 
Where were the eggs, the bananas and the rolls?  Oh shit!  Should
they make a run for it?  Fuck! Run?  They couldn’t move!  In
fact they were stuck, they couldn’t get out from the table.  The team
Captain and the Vice Captain were looming.  What the fuck were they going
to do?  With one almighty crash, the thinner of the two fat lassies managed
to free them from their predicament.  Off they went to play.

The team performed brilliantly
and for the first time they were through to the next round.  Going back to
table 214 the TV cameras were focused on them and they shone.  The two big
lezzies spoke glowingly about their team mates.  The veterans answered
technical questions succinctly and cleverly, the single mums smiled and joked
with the presenter and the two fat lassies were the heroines of the game. 
The only one one not on the telly was the Tart.  She’d seen her
opportunity to snatch Mr. Gorgeous and she wasn’t letting this one get away.

The team got a by into the next
round and looked like they had a chance to get to the semis.  Never before
in the history of the town had any team gotten this far and they were
ecstatic.  Pep talk from the captain.  No more booze and forget food
till after the semis.  The two fat lassies couldn’t believe their
luck.  Instead of being drummed out of the team they were actually being
congratulated for disposing of the food and temptation.  They, of course,
were starving but were taking no chances. 

While all this was going on the
Tart had gone in for the kill and, in a very romantic broom cupboard, had her
wicked way with Mr. Gorgeous; just a quickie, but that would do for now. 
She had plans for him.  How good would they look together on the
telly?  She could see the cover of OK magazine.

They won the semis easily and
couldn’t believe it.  The Finals, the Finals.  They were in the
Finals!

The Team Captain and Vice Captain
treated them to a slap-up meal at Harry Ramsden’s.  A Fish ’n’ Chip Tea. 
The fat lassies got extras on the side and no one said a thing.  With
strict instructions—no booze and an early night—the party headed back to the
caravan site.  Next year they would stay in the Excelsior if they won the
cup.  Just imagine, the Excelsior!

The two big lezzies were dreaming
of appearing on Bullseye, the veterans, of en suite bathrooms in the Excelsior,
and the single mums, of the Champions Dinner Dance.  The two fat lassies
dreamt about a free ‘All You Can Eat Buffet’ and the Tart?  Well she
wasn’t dreaming, in fact, she wasn’t even asleep.  She was making use of
all her time with Mr. Gorgeous who turned out to be the new British Darts
Champion.  Well, she
had
thought he looked vaguely familiar.

The day of the finals dawned
bright and sunny and the team assembled in the breakfast room.  The Team
Captain and Vice Captain, together with most of the staff, were watching
carefully what each team member was eating.  Leaving nothing to chance
they requested a proper packed lunch, no nicking anything from the
buffet.  They could be ‘The Winners,’ and had to show a bit of class.

No sign of the Tart. 
Christ!  Where was she?  They scoured the caravan site, phoned her mobile
which was turned off, and reluctantly left for the venue.  If she didn’t
show up they were scuppered.  The team had to consist of the same members
for each match and you could hardly miss her.

Pleeeeezzze
make her be
early and be at the Tower. 
Pleeeze
make her turn up; every one of
the team members prayed all the way there that she’d be sitting waiting for
them.  This was their big chance, surely she wouldn’t let them down? 
It was ten minutes till match time, everyone was buzzing; the TV cameras were
swinging round the venue but kept returning to them.  Table 214 was a
prime spot.  The team captain and vice captain were pacing up and
down.  The veterans were in a state, the single mums were tearing up and
down looking for her and the two Fat Pals were systematically working their way
through the packed lunches.  Comfort Eating.

Here she was, oh my God, here she
was; she was here. Oh! My! God!

Wearing last night’s clothes,
last night’s make up and hair like a divot; she certainly wasn’t ‘A-list’ material. 
But the important thing was the match.  They were contenders.  They
could win— not could—
would
.  The atmosphere was electric, they
were one up, then two down, then equal and so it went on.  Point for
point, everyone was at the top of their game.  Yesterday’s gear and bad
hairdo’s didn’t matter a damn.

It was the last game and the team
captain was on.  She played like the captain she was, not like a big lezzie
but as a sportsman and gave it her all.  The place erupted, they’d
won!  They’d actually won! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!  They
were jumping, shouting, screaming; party poppers, champagne, (Asti Spumante.) 
It was absolute madness.

Next came . . . the Presentation
. . .  the cameras, the speeches, the cup, it was sheer bedlam. 
Eventually they made their way back to table 214 and out the corner of her eye
the Tart could see Mr. Gorgeous but oh fuck!  Who was back hanging round
his neck?  The enemy she’d seen off the day before.

Mr Gorgeous was there in his
capacity as British Dart’s Champion and he was to interview them.  The
team were in their element.  Everyone, that is except the Tart.  She
was fuming, she was absolutely fucking speechless.  She’d just helped her
team win the biggest prize in Dart World and here he was, the arse-hole she’d
shagged all night, (and he was rubbish,) being pawed in public by that fat
horror.

She couldn’t resist any longer,
she was a street fighter, she knew how to handle herself and, with one almighty
swipe, she decked the bugger.  How dare he!  How fucking dare
he!  And what was that fat slapper screaming about her husband? 
Whose husband?  What husband?  And come to think of it the fat slapper
wasn’t fat, she was pregnant.  Oh fuck!

What happens in Blackpool stays
in Blackpool, but not when it’s televised . . . 

Double or Quits

Lily had been working in the pub
for five or six years when I took over and she was one of the best barmaids we
ever had.  We were the same age and had gone to school together. 
Whilst we had never been buddies, we knew each other fairly well.  To say
I was shocked when I met her for the first time in years, is an
understatement.  She was so old looking, I mean we were both in our 40’s,
but she had pure white hair, never wore make-up and certainly looked much older
than her years.  Why?  Because she had the ultimate control freak for
a husband.  But she was a great barmaid, everyone loved Lily, everyone
that is except her husband Seamus.  He was a dour peculiar man who watched
Lily like a hawk.

Now I have to say he did have
cause to watch her, she was a bit of a girl.  But he was such a pain, we
all covered for her.  Seamus was convinced that Lily couldn’t handle her
drink.  He was always on her case and checking her out.  What he
didn’t know was exactly how much Lily did drink, and why it looked like she
couldn’t handle it.

As I’ve said she was very popular
and was bought loads of drinks throughout her shift.  What she would do,
was every time someone bought her a drink, she would pour a measure of vodka
into a pint glass.  We had strict rules about drinking while on duty and
it was instant dismissal if I caught anyone.  Lily knew the rules and
obeyed them.

At the end of her shift she could
have as many as ten vodkas in her glass.  She then topped it up with coke
and quite blatantly sat there drinking her pint of coke, to quench her
thirst!  They would always have a couple before heading home, so to bulk
up her intake, we had a system.  Lily would go off to the toilet; on
passing the bar whoever was working would pass her a large vodka and coke,
which she would drink on the way to the loo.

She would leave the glass in the
toilet and pass the money over on her way back.  This could happen three
or four times in the hour that they were in.  By this time Seamus would
think she had had a pint of coke and three vodka and cokes, and he would be
furious and shouting about the state of her.  Lily would be almost
comatose, but so would you be, after something like sixteen vodkas in the space
of about an hour.  We all knew it was foolhardy but it was Lily, and he
was a plonker.

She was not against a few extra-maritals
either.  I can’t count the number of times we found her tights or knickers
hanging from the flag pole or stuffed in the wheelie bin and again, although it
was wrong, everyone covered up for her, just to outwit him.

The one thing which always
puzzled Seamus was that she never got drunk while on holiday, and he adamantly
refused to believe that foreign drink was as strong as the booze we sold. 
He would proclaim to anyone listening, that his Lily, could have three or four
in their local on a Saturday and be legless, but she could drink four times
that amount on holiday and still be able to sing on the karaoke and stagger
home.  So it was obvious that the foreign muck wasn’t as potent.

This situation continued for many
years.  She would work the Saturday afternoon shift, finish at seven, have
her bucket load of vodkas and be carried home and he never suspected. 
Until, that is, he went down with some dreadful lurgy.  The doctor put him
on a course of antibiotics which meant, as everyone knows, he couldn’t have a
drink.  So when he came to collect Lily on Saturday evening, instead of
his usual lager he had a pint of coke.

There they were: sitting side by
side drinking coke when the barmaid signalled to Lily that she had her first
drink lined up.  Off she trotted to the loo.  While she was gone,
Seamus, having finished his coke, and being a miserable devil, decided to
finish off hers.  It nearly blew his fucking hat off.  There had to
be a mistake, how the hell was he drinking neat vodka?  Whoa!  The
penny dropped and everything fell into place.  It dawned on him why she
couldn’t handle her drink, he’d put it down to her getting older, as if! 
But what was worse was, we were all in on the joke and he was not amused,