An inspector calls

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Wednesday, October 7th , 2009

In the House of the Sticky Carpets


The pint-drinking blonde is in again with her usual companion, a tall, morose looking man with a white goatee, and a bald head. Surely he cannot be her husband (she wears a wedding ring).

She looks lovely tonight; her long blonde hair hangs, clean and shiny, halfway down her back. And she is smartly dressed in a black skirt and frothy white blouse.
The two of them seem to be in here every night. Of course they may think the same about me, but they are usually here when I arrive, and still drinking when I leave.(and looking set for the night). Still, who am I to decide that one style of life is better than another? She has a most attractive smile – even though her face is a bit bloated, from the drink.

Tonight I have a pint of Campion’s fine bitter. Usually though I drink Kroenenborg lager.

Cricket is on the big plasma screen facing me. They have ‘Sky Sports’. I don’t like ‘Sky’ for some reason; I associate it with, acquisition, instant gratification, a chav lifestyle) I remember when I used to play cricket. My ambition was to play for my Lancashire (my county) and, of course, England. But somehow I never fitted it in; well, you can’t do everything, can you?

A thin, villainous looking woman has caught my eye a couple of times. I shall have to be careful. She is sitting at one of those high tables with the tall stools. The man she is with isn’t saying much; she is doing all the talking. He looks like one of those men for whom civilised discourse is not the communication of choice. As I say, I shall have to be careful.

I don’t really feel threatened in this place, though. I mean the clientele – some of them - are a desperate bunch, but the place has a sort of charged atmosphere: mobile phones, trainers, jeans, jogging bottoms, sweat shirts - any dress code is acceptable in this house. The women though – most of them young – are fashionably dressed, exquisitely made up, perfumed. Very nice.

There is a feeling of “All life is here”, as the News of the World” used to trumpet. I have been coming in here for over a year and have not yet been offered drugs - but who knows, tonight may be my lucky night! That’s a joke. I have sampled most things this wonderfully wicked life has to offer – but I am not interested in drugs (yes I know alcohol is a drug – but apart from that.)

I like this place; it has given me rest and shelter on many a fine evening. No one bothers me. I sit here quietly with my little notebook, writing away. Like a latter day Toulouse Lautrec (I know he sat in the Windmill in Paris, and sketched, whereas I sit in a pub – my favourite pub - in Swindon, and write) Actually I would like to take some candid photographs, a la Cartier Bresson – and, many years ago, I did take photos in pubs like this, but now I would probably be locked up.

Well you have to be so careful these days. And they have mums (most of them single) with prams, push- chairs, buggies and what not, and toddlers running around. So any lone male producing a camera is bound to be a paedophile.

There’s a couple over there, been sitting for ten minutes or so, not saying a word. They are, I would guess, in their thirties. Isn’t it sad when you have nothing to say to your partner – and at such a young age? What barren wilderness of silence stretches into their future? I often wonder about things like this.

This bitter is really good. It has just hit my legs, and I have that pleasantly woozy feeling. Not drunk - I never get drunk - just slightly anaesthetised,letting the frowsy, blowsy atmosphere wash gently over me, the sound of raucous voices a kind of pleasant background music.

Two small boys chase each other across the room and proceed to bash away at the buttons on the ‘games machine’ at the side of me. They don’t annoy me; I treat it as part of the ambience.

Largish, attractive lady in a full-length summery dress walks over to join a group in the corner. I watch her finish off a pint of lager and go to the ‘Ladies’

Look around, I wonder how many of these folk will appear on the ’Jeremy Kyle Show’ at some later date? Perhaps some already have. I am in no way patronising them; I admire their directness, openness, the fact that they ‘gulp’ at life instead of sipping.

I wonder what they think of the man with his little notebook, scribbling away in a corner. Do they know I am writing about them? I think not. They probably don’t give me a second thought.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, like a commoner.

‘Summery dress’ walks past on her way back from the ‘Ladies’, rubbing her hands together. I catch a whiff of perfume. Nice.

A youth leans on the bar. He is wearing a T shirt and scarf – actually the ensemble looks quite stylish. He in conversation with a mature lady behind the bar (she looks like she might be the landlady: short and blonde, with an understated air of authority) Next to him, three men in their twenties – they look like they have come fresh from the building site – are talking, and laughing raucously. One seems to be the leader; he has tattoos all the way up one arm and a shoulder, and he has the sort of face you would not want to meet in a dark alley.

I don’t drink much: no more than a couple of pints – mostly just a pint and a half. I like the alcohol but I don’t like the hangover. So it is a question of balance. But you can be too balanced. You can only move forward by pushing yourself off balance, correcting it, and then pushing yourself off balance again; that’s the way we walk.

This rather handsome, middle-aged gent at one of the high tables to my left, has an attractive companion in a red and black squared dress. He keeps getting up to go outside and have a smoke – leaving her looking rather lonely. (I wouldn’t leave her to go out for a smoke – but I don’t smoke).

I was served, this evening, by the barmaid with the tattoo on her left breast (you can only see the top half of it). The miniature barmaid is also on duty; she can’t be more that 4’8” and can barely see over the top of the bar. But she is perfect in every detail.

Isn’t it strange how we look at things but don’t really see them? For example, I am looking at the cover of this notebook and have never really noticed the rich colours: the browns, the golds, the rich blue. I rub my fingers against the thick fabric, really feel it.

Alcohol is a great leveller; I’ve probably said this before, but no harm in repeating it. And surely there can be no harm in calling in here for a pint or so of the old ‘falling down liquid’ – as a one-time friend used to call it.

They didn’t have any plain crisps. I don’t like the flavoured sort. I bought a packet of ‘cheese and onion’. I was hungry; I’ve only had a bowl of soup today. Actually I am sitting quite near to the door to the kitchens -the place is crowded and I couldn’t get any other seat- and a pleasant aroma of curry wafts under my nostrils. But I am not going to buy a meal – got to watch the old pennies.

Oh, here come the two ‘business ladies’. I call them that: they are both wearing dark tailored suits, white shirts and sporting Gucci handbags. They seem to have identical hairstyles: short and blonde. In fact, they could be sisters. I’ve seen them in here a few times. They look a bit out of place but I think they may be friends of the management: the landlord (now there’s a strange character) usually comes and sits with them. They drink pints of Kroenenborg. I wonder if they are from the brewery. I don’t think so because they would drink the beer, wouldn’t they?

The landlord, now, he never serves behind the bar but just seems to prowl around the huge room, collecting glasses and talking to one or two of his regulars. A little man with a shaven head and glasses, he usually wears a grey sweat-shirt, jogging bottoms and trainers. He never smiles.

I feel pleasantly tired. I could go to sleep in here. I don’t think anyone would mind.

The above, Anna, is an extract from my journal. I thought I would share it with you so that you could get a glimpse of my world – well a cosy corner of it.

But there are changes I want to make. Sometimes change happens of its own accord. But I think it is better to initiate the change yourself. Take control

I have decided against a career as a shelf-stacker. And I never had any intention of driving a bus. I don’t know what I shall do next – but I will do something.




The police came round. Inspector Plankton – mob handed. He said “We are investigating the illegal importation of pornographic material, and I have reason to believe there may be some such material on these premises.”
He never mentioned Sven. When I asked him who had made such a preposterous allegation he just said, “We are acting on information received.” Anyway he brandished a search warrant and he and his merry men marched straight in.
Gwen was furious – at me, mainly.

Of course they found nothing. But as he was leaving, Plankton assured me that he would be back.
“And by the way,” he said, “Is that your car?”
“No,” interjected Gwen, “It’s mine.”
He seemed disappointed. “Well the tax disc is out of date.”
“Yes, I know.” Replied my landlady, icily, “I renewed it online and am waiting for the new disc – I suppose you know there is a postal dispute?”
“Nothing to do with me, madam – just make sure it is properly licensed before you take in on the road.”
And with another baleful stare at yours truly, he led his officers down the drive.

Anyway Anna. I can’t think of anything else to say, except that I hope you are well – and free of disease.

I’ve had an idea: why don’t you pop over on the old Stenna? We could snatch a few precious hours together.

Yours ever,

George

Oh, I don't mean to be picky, but Glasgow is not the capital of Scotland - it is Edinburgh