Cravat buffoon-ery

Sugarcane, Bo Molasses’ bass player came round last night. I was still edgy over the Zosia/Tallulah meltdown.

Sugarcane suggested an eve at The Fox to calm the nerves.

We smoked a few bongs before departure and bumped into Weird Bob out in the hall. He tagged along.

The Fox was stuffed to the rafters by the time we arrived. Standing room only. In my stoned condition, it felt intensely claustrophobic, so many human beings and noise in one space.

Weird Bob made an immediate b-line for the bogs to avoid getting the first round in. So with great difficulty, Sugarcane and I pushed on through to the bar area and I ordered three beers.

The overhead TV monitor behind the bar was showing a compilation of the English football team’s greatest howlers, including Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle’s penalty misses against Germany in the semi-final of Italia 90, Gareth Southgate’s woeful penalty miss against the Germans in the semi-final of Euro 96, David Batty’s against Argentina in the 98 World Cup, Beckham and Vassell’s horrendous fluffs against Portugal in Euro 2004 and Lampard, Gerrard and Carragher fucking it al up also against Portugal in the 2006 World Cup.

Alan, The Fox’s white haired Scottish manager stood under the optics chuckling to himself.

“Och, I shouldnae laugh,” he said to no one in particular.

Pints pulled, Alan asked me for nine
pounds ninety please.

I stared blankly down at the old wallet,
unable to work out how many
coins or notes I’d need. 

Ended up uncertainly handing over two
twenty quid notes, a tenner and about
three quid in shrapnel. 

Alan took my cash, spread it on the bar, picked out
what was required, stuffed it in the till and returned the
rest with my change. 

Replenishing my wallet with the money was more complex
than I could possibly imagine. So was pocketing the
fucking thing.

Nevertheless, I gathered the three pints in both hands
and wobbled back through the double swinging doors
to The Fox’sfake indoor beer garden/conservatory
area where Sugarcane and Weird Bob had
found a safe spot over by an artificial
tree in the corner.

Weird Bob stood immediately under the branches of the tree,
his face hidden amongst the low hanging leaves. 

“Cheers lads,” he said, taking his glass from me and raising it.
“Eyes down for a full fucking mackerel.”

He knocked back his pint in one, let out an exaggerated ahhhhhhh and smacked his teeth together.

“Same again people?”

He borrowed a tenner off me and strolled to the bar to get the next round in.

Lots more exuberant drinking was done, the alcohol conspiring
with the weed to shatter my brain into delightfully discordant fragments.

Some bloke Weird Bob knew came over for a chat.

We watched as he stood before us, announcing he was embarking on a one-man game of charades using only his eyes.

"Gents,” he cried theatrically. “See if you can guess who, or what I am.”

Weird Bob's chum stood stock still in front of us, alternately staring
wildly and revolving his eyes.

It was quite sinister, even more so when, clearly disappointed that we didn’t seem to be getting his mime, he startled us all by barking out that his self-imposed ‘eyes only’ rule no longer applied.

He picked up two bottle tops from the floor and roaring like a beast, flew them through the air; adding highly realistic propeller plane engine sounds and machine gun aka-ka-ka-kas, before throwing the bottle tops down and roaring loudly, beating his chest.

Some bloke on the far side of the room called out, guessing he was King Kong.

Weird Bob's mate ceased what he was doing, turned and bowed.

As most of the people in the place were now staring at us and paranoia had gripped me in its evil, evil claws, I suggested we shimmy back to mine pronto.

No one agreed with me.

Back at mine, after closing time, Sugarcane took my weed and fixed the biggest spliff he could muster; a ‘Fulham Fourskin’, so-called because it was invented at his old gaff in Fulham and requirered four rizla skins to build it.

The rest of the night passed pleasantly in a spectacular dope haze.