Mistaken Identity

Another stag weekend: Liverpool this time, prospective groom a scouser. We were at the Moat House Hotel, scene of the odd footballer fracas in the days of the Spice Boys.

I was first into the bar. An old guy was at the corner of the highly varnished counter. He wore a paisley cravat and a sin-dark overcoat. He looked familiar, as though I remembered his face from a younger photograph. He was slight, a tremor in his hand as he lifted a glass of white to his lips. His knuckles were swollen, as if from a fight - with arthritis most likely- and the brown spots confirmed his age. Bright blue eyes looked out above still striking cheekbones. His face had papery skin. I knew him now; former roistering actor, last survivor of a group of three tabloid heroes of the sixties. Two Richards and Peter: firm friends through thick and gin. Two of them had even married the same woman at different times.

- 'Did you watch the rugby?’ I asked, his beloved Ireland had beaten England the previous week.
- ‘That I did. Wonderful.’
- ‘Would you like a drink Mr Harris?’
- ‘Thank you, no. I have my one glass. It’s all I take now.’
- ‘In Liverpool for work?’, I enquired.
- ‘Not at all, not much work for us older chaps now.’
- ‘Well then, nice to have met you.’ I said, and left him to his wine.

Just then the rest of the stag party spewed from the lift.

“’Ey, look! It’s that Richard O’Toole?’ came the cry.

Mr Harris lifted an eyebrow, gave a complicit smile and lifted the glass in memory of his glittering youth.