In the summer of '98, a small pub company "Hereford Country Inns," commissioned me to create a series of murals for the walls and beams to brighten up their dingy, unkempt pub, just outside Hereford city centre. As I'd been working in one of their other so-called country inns in Malvern, Worcestershire, I decided to drive down to Hereford on the Saturday morning. It was a glorious sunny day and I purposely took the back route along winding country lanes. Accommodation in the pub had been pre-arranged and usefully, there was a parking space close to the back entrance. I arrived at about midday and noticed a number of old transit vans and trucks in what appeared to be a temporary car park over the road. I found my space, collected my equipment from the trunk and went to introduce myself. Then I opened the saloon bar door...
Across most of the UK are various families of "travellers". These are not Romany Gypsies (though one suspects some interbreeding) but an offshoot that probably originated in Ireland for completely reasonable reasons; travelling to find work across each County. Good old Will Shakespeare knew about them as did the local parishes who described them as "light-fingered intinerants". The perjorative term "pikey" comes from "a turnpike traveller, a vagabond and generally low fellow"
As I swung open the Saloon Bar door that day, I found them all waiting to greet me. I was an uninvited guest at a 3-County Travelling Families' Wedding Reception. I was introduced to the bride. A tall, slim, attractive girl in her late teens with tumbling raven hair and a badly chipped front tooth. Her new husband obviously had a penchant for face furniture and on his wedding day, had decided to look like a pin cushion. Evidently festivities had begun a long time before my arrival. Every breath produced maladorous reeks of cheap lager, whisky, Old Holborn and gum disease. Who was I? "I'm here to do the blackboards"
Now think of all those times you regret opening your mouth in the wrong place at the wrong time. Pin cushion man wanted to see what was in my bag. Others came to help him. I held onto my holdall with the courage and pluck that only a true Englisman feels when the odds are hopeless and no one was offering to buy me a drink. And then the booming sound of the Manager's voice travelled across. "Can you all go down to the Function Room. Everything's ready."
It was then I met Albie. Albie was the grandfather of the groom. He was also the bare knuckle fighting champion of the Forest Of Dean Chapter, and currently the West Country Champion.
Albie was extremely drunk and hated my posh Southern accent. He wanted to alter certain parts of my face with a barrage of left hooks. He wanted to pulp me into Pit Bull Terrier food. His knuckleduster relatives were volunteering to help. Interestingly it was the pin cushion groom who came to my aid and with new chipped-tooth bride said, "'ere c'mon Grandad, leave the f***er alone." And with that, Albie punched my arm bruisingly hard, then grinned to display two rows of jagged yellow teeth punctuated by punched-out spaces. He cackled, turned and stumbled down the dark corridor leading to the Function Room.
The saloon bar was now virtually empty except for three or four local men, puffing at roll-ups.
And in a corner, a woman the size of Mount Snowdon displaying thin, dangling strands of unwashed brown hair. She wore a black dress embroidered with grease, ketchup, brown sauce and gravy stains. Her five-tiered wobbling chin was covered in moles, blackheads and pimples. Her nose was gargantuan. She was fostering tufts of black hair at strategic points around her face. And she fancied me. She got up from her seat. Part of the pub went dark as she eclipsed the sunlight and waddled over.
"'Ave a drink luv. 'Ere, you an artist 'en? Wanna do me picture? In the nuddy?" Her massive chest squashed me to the bar. "I'm nice int I. Heh, heh." And thankfully, this time the Manager's partner's Grandmother (it all gets very complicated) intervened, threw the hag a withering look and asked
Across most of the UK are various families of "travellers". These are not Romany Gypsies (though one suspects some interbreeding) but an offshoot that probably originated in Ireland for completely reasonable reasons; travelling to find work across each County. Good old Will Shakespeare knew about them as did the local parishes who described them as "light-fingered intinerants". The perjorative term "pikey" comes from "a turnpike traveller, a vagabond and generally low fellow"
As I swung open the Saloon Bar door that day, I found them all waiting to greet me. I was an uninvited guest at a 3-County Travelling Families' Wedding Reception. I was introduced to the bride. A tall, slim, attractive girl in her late teens with tumbling raven hair and a badly chipped front tooth. Her new husband obviously had a penchant for face furniture and on his wedding day, had decided to look like a pin cushion. Evidently festivities had begun a long time before my arrival. Every breath produced maladorous reeks of cheap lager, whisky, Old Holborn and gum disease. Who was I? "I'm here to do the blackboards"
Now think of all those times you regret opening your mouth in the wrong place at the wrong time. Pin cushion man wanted to see what was in my bag. Others came to help him. I held onto my holdall with the courage and pluck that only a true Englisman feels when the odds are hopeless and no one was offering to buy me a drink. And then the booming sound of the Manager's voice travelled across. "Can you all go down to the Function Room. Everything's ready."
It was then I met Albie. Albie was the grandfather of the groom. He was also the bare knuckle fighting champion of the Forest Of Dean Chapter, and currently the West Country Champion.
Albie was extremely drunk and hated my posh Southern accent. He wanted to alter certain parts of my face with a barrage of left hooks. He wanted to pulp me into Pit Bull Terrier food. His knuckleduster relatives were volunteering to help. Interestingly it was the pin cushion groom who came to my aid and with new chipped-tooth bride said, "'ere c'mon Grandad, leave the f***er alone." And with that, Albie punched my arm bruisingly hard, then grinned to display two rows of jagged yellow teeth punctuated by punched-out spaces. He cackled, turned and stumbled down the dark corridor leading to the Function Room.
The saloon bar was now virtually empty except for three or four local men, puffing at roll-ups.
And in a corner, a woman the size of Mount Snowdon displaying thin, dangling strands of unwashed brown hair. She wore a black dress embroidered with grease, ketchup, brown sauce and gravy stains. Her five-tiered wobbling chin was covered in moles, blackheads and pimples. Her nose was gargantuan. She was fostering tufts of black hair at strategic points around her face. And she fancied me. She got up from her seat. Part of the pub went dark as she eclipsed the sunlight and waddled over.
"'Ave a drink luv. 'Ere, you an artist 'en? Wanna do me picture? In the nuddy?" Her massive chest squashed me to the bar. "I'm nice int I. Heh, heh." And thankfully, this time the Manager's partner's Grandmother (it all gets very complicated) intervened, threw the hag a withering look and asked
"Mike, what can I get you?" allowing me to escape with a half lager...
Little time to calm down as the Manager then rushes in with blood seeping from a wound in his arm. He grabs a waiting pint of lager, downs it instantly and returns to the Function Room. His partner emerges and commands, "please everybody leave now. Pub's closing. Bit of a problem." The Bar evacuates. The only person remaining and still staring at me with bloated, dripping wet lips is the world's largest, ugliest woman looking dangerously as if she's about to breast bounce me into submission. I fumble out of the rear entrance to be blinded by mid-afternoon sunlight. Fresh air. Free. Not for long.
To be continued in Part 2 above
Little time to calm down as the Manager then rushes in with blood seeping from a wound in his arm. He grabs a waiting pint of lager, downs it instantly and returns to the Function Room. His partner emerges and commands, "please everybody leave now. Pub's closing. Bit of a problem." The Bar evacuates. The only person remaining and still staring at me with bloated, dripping wet lips is the world's largest, ugliest woman looking dangerously as if she's about to breast bounce me into submission. I fumble out of the rear entrance to be blinded by mid-afternoon sunlight. Fresh air. Free. Not for long.
To be continued in Part 2 above
1 comment:
'ere that's not fair, I was enjoying that...what happened next? Bloody Southern toffs always leaving us in the lurchers!
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