 |
| The North Star - My Spiritual Home |
The final weekend of the Six Nations is approaching and I am planning a marathon session on the sofa watching game after game accompanied by a mugs of tea and Oatie Crumble biscuit dunking.
Very different from when The Human Pinball and I used to watch the games together before we became grown ups, spawned some offspring and started reading water meter readings with great interest. The Human Pinball and I have much in common being short, dark, Celtic and passionate about Wales - no matter how crap they were playing. The Human Pinball (THP) is very, very Welsh to the point she is from a village that actually has no vowels.
Back then a Six (or maybe even Five) Nations Wales game took the following format.
Get out of bed and choose not to eat breakfast as already the nerves are kicking in and a dose of bran flakes doesn't taste as good on the way back up.
Spend an hour or so frantically trying to dry your Wales shirt with a hairdryer because you only washed it last night instead of earlier in the week.
Spend another good 40 minutes looking for your Lucky Red Bra, a.k.a LRB. (All Welsh women own a LRB in the misguided notion that it actually works. If you are wearing your LRB then Shaney is going to score a hat trick. This of course is not the case - when you get back from the pub after the game you will be drunkenly yanking it down one of the sleeves of your shirt and flinging it off into a corner while giving it some verbal abuse... "You bastard thing, never fucking works". Hence the search is on a week later because you can't remember which corner you flung it at. I found mine under the sink once wrapped round a tin of furniture polish.)
Suitably attired in LRB, beer stained & slightly damp shirt it is time to rendezvous at the North Star. We get there early to "get a seat" in front of a 14" portable mounted eight foot up high on the wall. No one else in the pub is there to watch the rugby - they're not remotely interested so this notion of "getting a seat" was a completely wasted effort. Why the North Star? It's not a very sporty pub but allegedly the barman fancied me and we always got served first.
Kick off is at three so we're in there at two o'clock and the first pint is going down on that mandatory empty stomach. We've got beer vouchers and we've got 40 fags each - so bring it on.
Time for the anthems and THP and I are the only couple of twits in the bar standing up and singing along. A couple of pints each are lined up on the table so we don't waste valuable time going to the bar. Adrenalin has kicked in big time so the only way to control it is to drink more beer and drag on more tabs.
Well into the second quarter and we're both stood up yelling "Go on, go on, GO LEFT", "Rip his fucking head off", "YOU STUPID ARSE" at the telly. Folk poke their head through the door and decide the "Townhouse" is a better option. THP needs a wee and heads to the bogs. Wales score a try. They always score a try when THP goes the bog. She's never seen Wales actually score a try. THP emerges from bogs bewildered "Bloody 'ell, did I miss something?".
Half time: more beer. Lots more beer. Hands are shaking, Wales are leading by a number of points and we can smell victory. Restart - more standing up and yelling "Run!, run! You stupid Welsh bastard".
About 20 minutes into the second half the "too much beer" has kicked in and we're both struggling to focus on the minature telly. Anyway, Wales are losing dismally now so we've completely lost interest. I'm talking to a pensioner on the next table about morse code and the THP has decided to stand up.
The North Star had three bars at the time. We're in the middle bar - the bogs are down the back. THP I think is attempting another visit to the toilet but the pub is filling up and the tables are close together. Swaying slightly she negotiates her way around a table of four by bumping into it "Hiya, sorry, hiya". Her recovery is good and she heads for the back bar again bouncing gently like a fluffy cloud against a mountain top off a couple of further obstacles.
When she returns she's brought a waif and stray with her. "This is ermm, Thingy. He's on his own so I invited him to sit with us". "Thingy" is mortified but too scared to decline the invitation.
Probably Wales have lost but we don't care and we're not sure of our own names. The table is covered with spilt beer and ripped beer mats. More waifs and strays are migrating to our table and our seating area is beginning to resemble the bar scene in the first Star Wars movie. We stumble to the jukebox to play some Catatonia to cheer ourselves up - THP bouncing off a few more tables/chairs on our way back. "Hiya, sorry, hiya". Alarmingly she is building up speed and beginning to now ricochet around the pub. I can see she is frantically attempting to get back to her seat but the kinetic energy provided by nearly a gallon of lager is resulting only in further acceleration.
Some minutes later I'm at the bar clutching onto it while trying to trying to count out £4.80 in loose change. "Jings", says Angus carving a love heart into the top of my Guinness "She's like a bloody human pinball". I turn to look at my friend who is now spinning like a Hotpoint on a hot wash, giggling & screaming in turns, spraying beer, attempting to shake hands with complete strangers, light a fag and operate a mobile phone while not noticing she's set fire to her hair. "There's tidy. I'm Welsh me".
Motion is finally halted by arrival of MacSaffir who is THP's infinitely patient boyfriend. He's brandishing her duffle coat like a matador's cloak and is preparing to ensnare her on the next lap of the track.
My last view of THP is MacSaffir stuffing her arms down her coat sleeves while dragging her out of the door. "Bye-ah!" she blows kisses to her audience as she departs.
I can't really remember getting home but I bet I knocked at Cuz's flat on the way to ask if I could use her toilet. Well, it was only over the road from the bus stop.
Very different from when The Human Pinball and I used to watch the games together before we became grown ups, spawned some offspring and started reading water meter readings with great interest. The Human Pinball and I have much in common being short, dark, Celtic and passionate about Wales - no matter how crap they were playing. The Human Pinball (THP) is very, very Welsh to the point she is from a village that actually has no vowels.
Back then a Six (or maybe even Five) Nations Wales game took the following format.
Get out of bed and choose not to eat breakfast as already the nerves are kicking in and a dose of bran flakes doesn't taste as good on the way back up.
Spend an hour or so frantically trying to dry your Wales shirt with a hairdryer because you only washed it last night instead of earlier in the week.
Spend another good 40 minutes looking for your Lucky Red Bra, a.k.a LRB. (All Welsh women own a LRB in the misguided notion that it actually works. If you are wearing your LRB then Shaney is going to score a hat trick. This of course is not the case - when you get back from the pub after the game you will be drunkenly yanking it down one of the sleeves of your shirt and flinging it off into a corner while giving it some verbal abuse... "You bastard thing, never fucking works". Hence the search is on a week later because you can't remember which corner you flung it at. I found mine under the sink once wrapped round a tin of furniture polish.)
Suitably attired in LRB, beer stained & slightly damp shirt it is time to rendezvous at the North Star. We get there early to "get a seat" in front of a 14" portable mounted eight foot up high on the wall. No one else in the pub is there to watch the rugby - they're not remotely interested so this notion of "getting a seat" was a completely wasted effort. Why the North Star? It's not a very sporty pub but allegedly the barman fancied me and we always got served first.
Kick off is at three so we're in there at two o'clock and the first pint is going down on that mandatory empty stomach. We've got beer vouchers and we've got 40 fags each - so bring it on.
Time for the anthems and THP and I are the only couple of twits in the bar standing up and singing along. A couple of pints each are lined up on the table so we don't waste valuable time going to the bar. Adrenalin has kicked in big time so the only way to control it is to drink more beer and drag on more tabs.
Well into the second quarter and we're both stood up yelling "Go on, go on, GO LEFT", "Rip his fucking head off", "YOU STUPID ARSE" at the telly. Folk poke their head through the door and decide the "Townhouse" is a better option. THP needs a wee and heads to the bogs. Wales score a try. They always score a try when THP goes the bog. She's never seen Wales actually score a try. THP emerges from bogs bewildered "Bloody 'ell, did I miss something?".
Half time: more beer. Lots more beer. Hands are shaking, Wales are leading by a number of points and we can smell victory. Restart - more standing up and yelling "Run!, run! You stupid Welsh bastard".
About 20 minutes into the second half the "too much beer" has kicked in and we're both struggling to focus on the minature telly. Anyway, Wales are losing dismally now so we've completely lost interest. I'm talking to a pensioner on the next table about morse code and the THP has decided to stand up.
The North Star had three bars at the time. We're in the middle bar - the bogs are down the back. THP I think is attempting another visit to the toilet but the pub is filling up and the tables are close together. Swaying slightly she negotiates her way around a table of four by bumping into it "Hiya, sorry, hiya". Her recovery is good and she heads for the back bar again bouncing gently like a fluffy cloud against a mountain top off a couple of further obstacles.
When she returns she's brought a waif and stray with her. "This is ermm, Thingy. He's on his own so I invited him to sit with us". "Thingy" is mortified but too scared to decline the invitation.
Probably Wales have lost but we don't care and we're not sure of our own names. The table is covered with spilt beer and ripped beer mats. More waifs and strays are migrating to our table and our seating area is beginning to resemble the bar scene in the first Star Wars movie. We stumble to the jukebox to play some Catatonia to cheer ourselves up - THP bouncing off a few more tables/chairs on our way back. "Hiya, sorry, hiya". Alarmingly she is building up speed and beginning to now ricochet around the pub. I can see she is frantically attempting to get back to her seat but the kinetic energy provided by nearly a gallon of lager is resulting only in further acceleration.
Some minutes later I'm at the bar clutching onto it while trying to trying to count out £4.80 in loose change. "Jings", says Angus carving a love heart into the top of my Guinness "She's like a bloody human pinball". I turn to look at my friend who is now spinning like a Hotpoint on a hot wash, giggling & screaming in turns, spraying beer, attempting to shake hands with complete strangers, light a fag and operate a mobile phone while not noticing she's set fire to her hair. "There's tidy. I'm Welsh me".
Motion is finally halted by arrival of MacSaffir who is THP's infinitely patient boyfriend. He's brandishing her duffle coat like a matador's cloak and is preparing to ensnare her on the next lap of the track.
My last view of THP is MacSaffir stuffing her arms down her coat sleeves while dragging her out of the door. "Bye-ah!" she blows kisses to her audience as she departs.
I can't really remember getting home but I bet I knocked at Cuz's flat on the way to ask if I could use her toilet. Well, it was only over the road from the bus stop.
Great story! Had me smiling all the way through and wishing I was there for the craic!
ReplyDelete