Don't get out much anymore

I stumbled across Listmaker's old photoblog (complete with bizarro global commenting).

Another time, another place, A much loved pastime (being drunk and clumsy, the smoking I don't miss)

For those of you who I should be having a beer with this Christmas, but can't, enjoy this image and the memories it might stir.

The Absolut truth.

The Absolut trophy was inaugerated at some undetermined point in the mid 1990s.

Neither myself nor the other competitor, the old chum, former fellow student and global traveller and professional Bristolian, 'Ringer' can recall the exact details of it's birth. Last night we attempted to piece together some of the mythology surrounding this hallowed, yet empty, glass bottle.

We do seem to remember drinking much more vodka in those bygone days.
We do seem to remember playing an awful lot of Subbuteo, FIFA 97,babyfoot, pool and darts.
We do seem to remember that we brought out a bizarre competitive streak in each other, often to the bemusement of those around us.
We definitely remember that out of this daze of student life and the immediate aftermath grew the Absolut Trophy. An empty bottle of vodka that we fought over in competitive sport.

We fought over it back then.

We fight over it still.

In fact last night, 'Ringer' and his lovely wife and tiny daughter came to stay at Fritz Mansions, we ate, we drank and of course, we ushered the ladies into the parlour, we retreated to the games room, lit our cigars, poured the finest brandy and did battle.

The concept is simple. We are the only two who may compete for the Absolut trophy. It's a bit like the Boat race or the Ashes in that respect. The preferred field of combat is the subbuteo pitch but the challenger may choose any form of competition to try and gain the trophy. But really, it's about two grown men stooped over a table , flicking little plastic men about. Flicking little plastic men about in order to get the rights to keep hold of an empty bottle of vodka that we think we drank in 1994, possibly. The actual bottle now hardly features, the last time I saw it , it was on 'Ringer's bookshelf in Bath in 1998. He admitted last night that it's in his loft in Bangkok, in a box.

The whereabouts of the actual bottle is irrelevant, I managed to find a replacement for display purposes for last night.

The real issue is the honour.

Sadly, last night the honour went to Ringer (again).

The practise game went well enough, 0-0, a cagey start. Ringer was insistent upon the format of the competition (a practise game and then a two legged affair with no away goals ruling).

The first leg was also a tight game. 1-1. Going into the second leg, honours even with everything to play for. I could almost touch the glass.

The second leg. Cobblers. 6-1. A rout. A drubbing. A lesson in Subbuteo. Also perhaps a lesson in not drinking to excess if you are about to go out and play in a major sporting event.

My congratulations to Mr Ringer and his fans, the Absolut is yours, for the time being.

Friday

MUST

GO

TO

PUB.

Sorry.

Sorry I missed your party.



But thanks for the lovely picture.

The Governor and the Mayor.

Two men with almost similar nicknames.

Me, the Governor because I used to be a school Governor and some American chums found the idea of me as a Governor slightly amusing.
Him, the Mayor because he knows everyone and is the odds on favourite for the guy you'll be most likely to bump into on any given street in the five boroughs (except he just moved to LA)

So a couple of years back, after a drink or two we got to thinking. What would the Governor and the Mayor do if they met and hung out?

Staged hand shaking photo op of course!

Here are some of the pictures from the last couple of years.


In the kitchen at the Governor's Mansion, Brooklyn, Fall 2005.


Montauk, by the dartboard, Summer 2006.


Montauk, by the dartboard again, Summer 2006.


Oscar night, Chelsea, March 2006.


The Mayor's mansion, Brooklyn, Thanksgiving 2005.


Someone else's rehearsal dinner, Brooklyn, Summer 2005.


The wedding of the rehearsal dinner, Brooklyn, Summer 2005.


The Mayor's wedding, Manhattan, Summer 2005.


Oscar night, Chelsea, Spring 2005.


The Governor's mansion, Brooklyn 2005.

A lesson learned.

England, Spring 2001.

I had been stripping wallpaper and some friends came by for drinks.

When I awoke the next day I was greeted by this sight.
And sharpies.
And an empty bottle of whisky.
And two drunk architects and a crimson duchess.

My favourite line is LBJ you're OK but you're gaylasos mandosos.

A yuletide tale continued.

We pick up the tale.

Mr Goodyear and I, accompanied by Pat the Irish fellow are stumbling toward the Catholic Church. We have stashed our collection of 20 odd bottles of Becks in every avaliable pocket and orifice. As a result of which we managed to omit a curious clinking sound as we walk, in fact any type of movement is accompanied by a clinking noise, the happy sound of beer bottle rubbing up against beer bottle, or cellphone or cigarette lighter, or doorkeys.
As we make our way through the town I begin to hear some dissent from Mr Goodyear."But I'm not a bloody catholic". "No bother" I say. "They'll let you in, you're with me".
At this point Pat starts to get nervous about going to church but he's drunk and lost in a strange foreign town so he has very little choice but to succumb to the desires of his kidnappers.
I reassure my men, "It'll be fine, we'll sneak in at the last moment, find a seat at the very back, sing a couple of hymns and leave before we get too sleepy" Easy.
The catholic Church is about half a mile from the pub and we get there just before midnight. My plan soon begins to turn rather sour.

We enter the back of the church, I shepherd Mr Goodyear and Pat inside , Mr Goodyear is visibly relieved to discover that he has not been turned into a cloud of orange smoke by the protestant gods of on high and Pat is looking ever more unsettled. As We approach the back doors I begin to sense a problem. The place is packed , it's jamming with good Yuletide worshippers and there is no room. No room at the inn.
Ah, none at all. Not at the back of the church anyway.
Also the clientele is well, sober. It seems that the local boozy brigade go direct to the Abbey. There they can hide amongst themselves and smell bad and belch , fart and forget the words. They can crumple the hymn sheet and mumble the prayers.

Here at the Catholic church they actually expect you to know your stuff. Don't get me wrong, they are very pleased to see us , so pleased in fact that they give us a pile of books, a bible, a couple of hymn books and all. Books I tell you! We were expecting a zeroxed sheet with a couple of classic christmas hymns and that's it.

No. We were to participate fully in the entire service. Next in a lengthening line of unfortunate events was the seating. As I'd said there didn't seem to be any room. Had we been even slightly less drunk we could have turned and scooted out, abort the plan, no problem. It was our consumption of beer that done us in. That and the adorable old ladies at the door. "Hello loves, there's plenty of room right at the front".

We clinked our wobbly way to the front of the church. It was packed, the priest was about to start but he very kindly held things up "for a few happy latecomers". I noted my brother in the pews, quietly pissing himself as I led my curious entourage to the foremost pew. The drunk catholics and the sweating Protestant.

I need to admit something. I'm not much of a churchgoer. I would describe myself as a second row Catholic. I mean that I really need to see real religious types in front of me so that I can know when to kneel, stand, genuflect etc. Being in the front row mere inches from the Priest was no good for me, I kept having to look around everytime I heard a shuffling noise. Thankfully the Priest was well endowed with Christian charity and took to nursing us through the service by directing us to sit or stand with hand gestures and a kindly smile. Despite his efforts there were a couple of lapses which left us three standing alone at the front of the congregation until a small voice behind us told us what to do and when to do it.And of course, each and every time we stood, sat or whatever we were accompanied by the happy sound of clinking beer bottles. It's amazing how quiet a room full of people can be.

The sermon was long and the priest had a solid Norfolk accent. Even for those of us born and raised in the place we had a bit of trouble understanding him (or maybe we were just too drunk?)He was talking about "fillums" and we leaned over that we may hear him better. "Fillums? what are Fillums?". Then he mentioned the message of hope contained in the "fillum" The Shawshank Redemption. "Oh, he means films!" burst out Pat. "Yes, I said Fillums" replied the priest.

We muddled through, Mr Goodyear was desperate to leave, to pee, to drink, to do anything but sit through this mammoth Midnight mass-athon. The thing was, we couldn't leave. We were jammed in at the front. No escape. Mr Goodyear eventually dozed off, I did my best to stay awake through the whole thing and just about managed to avert complete family disgrace.

After what had seemed like days the priest put us out of our misery. In a gesture of real humanity he turned and thanked us for coming and wished us well, we clinked out through the crowds and stumbled home, clinking all the way. We had not intended to be quite so drunk and unlike many in the Abbey we had a genuine respect for those whose church we had so spectaculary crashed. We sang when we should have sang, we changed no words to invite rude words, we sat through the whole thing in a drunken puddle of mild embarassment and clinking bottles. I don't go to Midnight mass anymore but if I did I would have a drink or two, but no more.

A yuletide tale

It's that time of year again so why not regale you with one of my favourite Christmas anecdotes.

It's the late 90's. I'm in my hometown (just like Joseph I have returned to pay tribute to those who raised me). The traditional thing is to get blasted on Christmas Eve in the Feathers, the premier pub in town. Trouble is, everyone else always has the same idea and my erstwhile drinking buddy Mr Goodyear and I have decided that we'll need to get creative in order to maintain the world class buzz we are accustomed to.

We decide to try the Feathers until it becomes impossible to get beer. Think Times Square on New Years Eve. Times Square with priviledges but even so, being 6'5" and on very friendly terms with the barstaff isn't alway enough to ensure smooth drinking.

After a while and a bunch of hellos and bumps and spills we decide to move off in the direction of something a touch, well, quieter. This is a moment in time, a point has been reached. We have spent every available youthful moment in our hometown in the Feathers. We have drunk away many a summers evening there, we love the place and it loves us back. It's not a big pub, it's smoky, old and dark and only serves real beer. Untill a few years ago the landlord refused to play music, deeming it a mod con he could do without. He retired to the golf course and his daughter took over. She allowed music (both jukebox and fantastic open mic evenings), some flowers by the bar and even some design tips from regulars. My old room mate and cricket bat donor Blazeby and I once had a lenghty conversation about the lighting in the garden, a few days later Blazeby's suggestions were in place. Even now, it's a place of pilgrimage when returning home to visit the folks.

You get the idea. Going elsewhere on Christmas Eve was not a choice made lightly. The Feathers offers many things to many wonderful people, It's that rare thing, a pub that genuinely crosses class and cultural barriers without any sense of effort. What it is not, on Christmas Eve, is a quiet haunt.
We were getting old.

We stumbled over to the Green Dragon. This instantly placed us into a much older, grumpier demographic. If the Feathers was all bending about, spilt pints and loud, boisterous smiles the Green Dragon was a smaller crowd of folk whilstfully drinking the remainder of the year away. The oldest pub in town it dated from the 1500's (the Feathers a mere child being only about 250 years old)and had a reputation for misery.

Still we thought, why not? it'll be quiet, we could catch up with each other (Mr Goodyear and I had not seen each other in a while and didn't mind having a conversation) and most importantly we might actually get a beer.
We find a seat and soon get chatting to an Irishman. He's older than us and is in town visiting his sister for the holiday. Grand! We'll all just hang out and talk politics! What better than that? Me the Republican, Mr Goodyear the Unionist and Pat with no fixed abode. We enter the pub raffle. The grand prize is 24 bottles of Becks.
We win! We Drink! We talk Irish history! We laugh! We stop laughing, we are in the Green Dragon.

Another traditional aspect of Christmas Eve is Midnight Mass. The town has a very large and very old Abbey. It's the bastion of the local conservatism and whilst it's an impressive building it's never been my idea of a place of worship. The usual thing is to get slightly, rather, very drunk and when the pubs close rush over to the Abbey stand at the back and belt out a few hymns. It's like the best of both worlds, religion without the faith and drunkeness without the... no , wait.
The trouble with the Abbey is that it gets packed on this night, the back overflows with drunks, you can't see or hear anything and you spend an hour needing to pee.
Anyway, I'd grown tired and bored of this charade yet something inside me wanted to be festive, I wanted to join in some type of celebration. The Abbey was not for me. Then it hit me, The best idea of all...

We would cross the street and go to the local Catholic Church!

Absolute genius.

I was a failed Catholic, I could get us in the door. Mr Goodyear was raised a conservative Protestant and we'd pulled some Irish bloke. That and the 24 bottles of Becks, we were laughing!

Surely?

Why not?

The Catholic Church would be full of real people who actually cared about the reason for the season. It would be warmer than the Abbey as it's smaller and only 60 years old (The Abbey is almost 950 years old and built for mediaeval worshippers who didn't seem to mind drafts and the cold winter air). Catholics are warm and friendly. So what if we're a wee bit tipsy? It's Christmas Eve for God's sake. We'll sneak in the back, relax, sing a few hymns and leave in time for Santa. Yeah! An honest alternative to the mayhem in the Abbey.

So looking at our watches, we grab our pints and set off towards the Catholic Church.


To be continued....

Crate and Barrel

Due to circumstances involving the winter party, my boss, some coworkers, a pulled pork sandwich, several (read many) pints of Brooklyn lager and a magical late night cab ride I spent last night on the couch in the living room.
Imagine my astonishment when the phone rang at 6.15 am. I thought the worst (well one does when the phone rings at odd hours) I thought family disaster, Trafford has died, something like that.

No.

It was Crate and Barrel calling to confirm a 7am delivery of our new sofa.

fan-bloomin-tastic.

Up I got, scrubbed and scrubbed some more and within half an hour two marvellous gentlemen had presented us with a shiny new chocolate colored sofa and storage ottoman!

I'm thinking of calling the lil'un "crateunbarrel".

Right, now it's silent reading all day.

Drunk Blogging

Did I write that?
OK, I stand by every word of it but it's just funny when you wake up after a night of Becks (the beer, not the God) and you see that you have made a brilliantly coherent point.