...and so I crossed the road and passed beneath the ruins of the old city walls.
A little way up on the left of the street was a McDonald's. I would have stayed longer watching predominately fat people with screaming children having heart attack competitions, but the police were called to an incident on the top floor and the restaurant was evacuated. As it seemed that whatever I did next would probably lead to my violent death, I decided to go back to the pub. "Ought to check out the car," I thought. It was an old Ford Orion. One of the last of its breed to accept leaded petrol. Just the sort of vehicle favoured by tattooed people with unsophisticated face furniture. Luckily it was intact. Which is more than could be said for the Gent's toilet window. More perturbing were the trails of blood leading from the Pub's back entrance. I dared to return to the saloon bar. Seated at a table by the window were two of the customers I'd seen earlier. No one else, just them. The one in the over sized, beige, beer-splashed cardigan got up, turned towards me and said, "what you be drinkin'?"
He then shambled over to behind the bar and stared at me with grey expressionless eyes.
"Yes. A pint of Stella please," I said.
"T'soff" he grunted, "Pikies 'ad it all"
"Right," I replied, examining the pump badges for any alternatives.
"I'll have the Carling then."
" 'Atsoff as well. Only got Banks' Bitter. Pikies 'ad everything."
So Banks rather awful Bitter it was. My temporary barman shuffled back to his seat, attempted to cough out his remaining lung and rolled another cigarette.
"Don't you want any money?" I asked.
"Martin (the Manager) said to 'ave it on the house. He's up the hospital," he wheezed.
"For that arm wound?"
"Nah, the head wound." He coughed violently once again and stroked some fallen ash from his long suffering cardigan.
So what did happen at the 3-Counties Traveller's Wedding?
Once upon a time there were three Traveller's Families. The Monmouth Family from the Welsh borders, The Glo'ster Forest Of Deans (regarded as rather backward) and the local Herefords. The bride's name was Rosalind, daughter of a Monmouth triple Transit-Van owner currently on remand for grievous bodily harm. The groom (the walking pin cushion) was called Albie in honour of his prize-fighting psychopathic grandfather. He came from the backward Forest Of Deans who resented being called backward but couldn't work out why. The best man was a Dec from the Herefords. All was going well until the cutting of the cake. A Herefords' family member made some comments suggesting past indiscretions concerning the bride's relationship with an older Monmouth uncle. True by all accounts but not the sort of thing you mention about your half sister. The knife being used to cut the cake transformed into a weapon of castration. From that point on no one quite knows what happened other than overturned tables, a blood soaked wedding breakfast and an entire back bar being robbed of wines, spirits and packets of peanuts. To make matters more interesting, a regular customer from a completely unrelated traveller family decided through a whisky haze to challenge all three factions to a "proper" fight. As he drunkenly put up his fists, he received a shower of wounds from plastic knives supplied for the buffet. Martin, the Manager, had bravely and stupidly tried to restore order before being hit by a flying bottle.
When did the Police arrive? They never did. Early on, the payphone had been ripped out and taken. And anyway, nobody called them. I later discovered that Martin The Manager's partner, Maria, was also of "Traveller's" stock. So, despite having a ruined Function Room with enough blood on the floor to fill a donor bank, she made sure the entire wedding party could "quietly" melt away. To return to those transit vans and trucks parked over the road. No flashing blue lights, no breathalyziers, no searches to find the missing payphone.
Even more mysterious was that two hours later (we're now talking 10.30pm),
every bit of glass, dried blood, dead egg, ham and cheese sandwiches; it was all meticulously cleaned up by an invisible squad of helpers.
Grandma, on Maria's side, appears to have had quite a few tricks up her sleeve. As I was to discover later that night when I finally found out where I was to sleep.
End of Part Two
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