A night out with Mohamed Ali's ugly sister

 

July 2010

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Back in my younger years I used to spend quite a lot of my time in a pub. In fact one night when I was 18, a friend and I decided it would be a good idea to attempt a pub crawl and visit all of the 20 pubs and bars in the town. The idea was that we would have a drink in each and collect a souvenir. To begin with, these were small things like beer mats and towels but as the alcohol consumption increased, the souvenirs became more elaborate. To cut a long story short we had to curtail the pub crawl after my attempt to steal a dart board was foiled by some masonry nails and my friend knocked himself out trying to winch the toilet out of a window. The rest of the evening was lost in a blur of blue flashing lights and sick.

Nevertheless, it was quite an achievement. Despite failing in our quest to visit every pub in town, over the next couple of years we eventually worked our way around the rest of them. Except one.

Now there are a few reasons for this. Firstly the pub in question was right on the outskirts of town and not the easiest to get to but mainly because it was also worryingly near the neighbouring village where they all play the banjo and refer to their sister as "mum".

So recently when I got a call from an old friend asking if I wanted to meet up for a drink and a catch-up in said pub, it was with much surprise and considerable reluctance that I agreed. So, accompanied by my unsuspecting girlfriend, we trekked right into the heart of banjo playing country where I mentally prepared myself to be tormented by some toothless inbred and made to squeal like a pig.

My worst fears of the place were realised when we walked through the door. It was like a scene from an old Western. The music stopped and all eyes turned and looked at us with suspicion because we obviously weren’t from around these parts. I swear I even saw some tumbleweed blow past the window.

Anyway, after seeking out my friend, we quietly slunk into the scenery and made ourselves invisible. Soon afterwards, we were joined by a rather loud drunk woman who my friend informed us was the person she was now sharing a flat with.

The behaviour of this woman was more suited to an 18 year old. At that age you are expected to get drunk, make an arse of yourself and finish every evening by smashing a bottle over someone’s head before getting stabbed. The sad thing was that this woman was 40 so she just looked pathetic.

Anyway, the evening was a bit boring to tell the truth and I was desperately trying to signal my girlfriend in our special code that we should make a move. She agreed and I took one last visit to the little boys' room.

On my return from the lavatory I was confronted with the scene of this woman shouting at my friend. At first I thought it was all part of some drunken joke that I didn’t get because I was sober and consequently on a completely different level of intellect. It soon became apparent that this woman wasn’t joking and was actually screaming blue murder at my friend.

Without warning, she just started punching my friend repeatedly in the face. After recovering from my initial shock at the image of a 40 year old woman beating the living daylights out of another woman, I did the honourable thing and intervened. My reward was to get punched in the face myself. Well when I say punched I mean she gently caressed my cheek. Seriously, I’ve been hit harder by petrol prices.

After restraining her and warning her that it was in her best interest not to touch either myself or my friend again, she was summarily ejected from the pub by the landlady.

Now I don’t like violence and when I see people over a certain age acting like that it makes me feel a bit sad. Even sadder was the fact that this woman was a mother. What a great example she is setting for her kids. Oh no, I was told by my friend, she’s not just a mother she’s also a grandmother. At 40?

OK I’m starting to paint a picture here: A young girl from the wrong side of the track. Her youth was spent in a rough neighbourhood. Her mother was an alcoholic prostitute and her father was a crack dealer who was doing a 15 year stint in Belmarsh prison. Her mother never showed her any affection and her stepfather sexually abused her. She eventually ran away and went to live with a nightclub owner called Chaz where she started taking heroine. After being informed by the government that they are weak and corrupt and that she could live a life of luxury on benefits if she went on the dole and had an illegitimate child, she got herself a council house and started riding every male in the land. She neither knew nor cared which one of the drug-addled men the father was. She beat her child, who grew up resenting her but ultimately made the same mistakes. She now spends her days drinking herself to death and having violent fits of self loathing.

I’d say that was probably an accurate portrayal of this worthless woman’s life and it makes me appreciate how lucky I’ve been. I was fortunate enough to be brought up by two stable, well educated, intelligent and loving parents who knew what they were doing. In turn, I’ve grown up to be a very well balanced young man – if a little opinionated at times.

All of my friends are the same. They are all happily married and, like me, all have their own homes, good steady jobs and none of them are in debt. They are all intelligent and we can all enjoy a conversation on any subject - sensible or stupid. We don’t get drunk and try to punch each other in the face and I’m quite grateful for that.

Does this sound boring to you? Well maybe it is but I can tell you this: If the definition of interesting is being a 40 year old grandparent with no self control and no life, living in a run-down council house in the worst part of a rubbish town, then I'd rather be boring thank you very much.