THE DEVIL LIKES A DRINKER

Chris the drunkard bum changed to a chronic alcoholic, inflicted with the Hideous Four Horsemen, Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration and Despair. The bars that he clung to like a barnacle had beared him then bared him then the last off licence had brutally dealt him a red card.

 “It was time for crash out, I’ve been shown my last red, shite,” he thought to himself as his unstable mind and walk took his to one last stop off, the mysterious temple for a free gift of hot food for the homeless and vulnerable. There he was fed by men in amber dresses, the colour you find in traffic lights, not knowing to stop or go or go stop or stop go, which is more mystical than the bald headed cross dressers who were giving out the freebies.  

The following morning he was woke to find two bin cleaners peering down at his urine soiled trousers from the opened lid of one of their commercial bin. As the rubbish collectors assisted Chris out an early morning city suit shouted, with a smug laugh,

 “More human rubbish amongst the rubbish!”

Sitting on the local park bench amongst the fresh pigeon blessings poking his pockets for a ciggy, he come across a leaflet he vaguely remembered the weirdoes had handed him the night before, thinking. “What is this shite?” Normally he would have tossed it to the floor, but for some reason he started to read it. Three Galloping Horses, is a reflection of confidence, control and vitality,” he did not read any more but the words rang in his head all morning like church bells on a Christmas day.

By the afternoon Chris had had enough of the Three Horses, galloping around in his head and made a pilgrimage to the weirdo Temple. He was greeted by the head guru guy.

“You wish to exchange your Four Horsemen for Three Galloping Horses? Welcome to our Temple, please enter!

----------

Chris was now on a journey of spiritual enlightenment after his first teachings of the Three Horses Galloping, which is an auspicious symbol allowing the beholder to sprint stably through any obstacle of life!

Chris abandoned the booze and cleaned up his act. He came over all Gandhi. He became inspired be the great gurus of the mystical East and the science of-realization, seeing himself now as teacher, but not a preacher of their values because that would be wrong. Show and tell those were the wise words of head guru.

He came up with the idea of forming a social group, Sunny Side Up. Within a mouth of posting his Facebook page, Chris was sipping mineral water with two Sunny Cider pissheads, Goth Kellie from Jaywick and scrummy swigging Stan, or Worzel Gummidge as Kellie called him, who was a refugee from Summerset.

They probed Chris about not drinking. He did not wish to dwell on the past so he changed the subject and had a pint of Stella, or as it was known in these parts, ‘wife beater’, just to buddy up to them in the next round.

Ex- chronic alcoholic Chris would like to think he was now some sort of Shaolin Monk inspiring his disciples to walk with him, but they did not think much of him at all, especially Goth Kellie who referred to him as Grass Hopper No Testicles as Chris was away talking bullocks. Worzel and Chris were undecided if Kellie suffered from Aspersers or as she says has a heightened intelligentsia, quoting research from Marist College in New York that intelligent people swear more than stupid mothers.

On the next full moon at the request of the two sunny ciders they met in the Red Lion that happened to be more convenient for some than others. On the count Chris had not crossed the threshold of the pub since collapsing in a drunken stupor, leaving his then girlfriend to taxi him home in a Lidi shopping trolley.   

Chris sheepishly entered The Red Lion spying out for old drinking comrades. Fortunately they had moved on or been kicked out by the new landlord. In the snug were Scrummy Stan and Goth Kellie, both wearing the tee shirts he had given then on their first meeting with the text, I Asked Krsna (God) To Help Me Grow And It Started to Rain!’ But Worzel’s shirt was so cider stained all Chris could read was Ask G To Hel Rain and Kellie had crossed out Rain and scribbled Pissing Down!

The Sunny Ciders jointed the Sunny Side club for the social; alas Chris felt he should promote positive personal skills, not taking note of his Buddha buddies from the Temple,

“You can’t change the person if they do not want to change themselves.”

Chris was desperate for friends, if only it was a girl with a bread maker for the breadefits, but these low lives of humanity were an inspiring challenge to say the least.

 After the second months’ meeting it became apparent there were no more waifs or strays in London with a population of eight million needing enlightenment. So Chris decided to close the Sunny Side Facebook page and relieve himself of the hundreds of comedians who wanted to enlighten him with pictures of their sunny side arses. 

At the third meeting, just as Chris was walking to the bar, his eye caught his ex’s, Gemma with some hipster guy. Chris gingerly diverted to the other end of the bar trying ignore her. As he sat with the two Sunny Ciders, a Lidi shopping trolley came crashing into their table, with a ‘thoughtful’ Gemma snarling.

“You will probably be needing this!” She then decanted a full class of prosecco over Chris adding,

“This one is on the house, you pisshead arse!” Then Kellie decided to add her pennies worth,

 “You go bitch, you tell Grass Hopper No Testicles!”

 With that yuppie Gemma did a one eighty then stormed out of the Red Lion with her hipster guy following like an obedient puppy.

Luckily the Gods or as the Temple name him Krsna were on Chris’s side as he was still wearing his anorak, which protected him from the full force of the prevailing stormy conditions.

Once things had calmed down, whilst nursing his second pint and Stan and Kellie were passing the half gallon mark, it became apparent his two disciples were not his disciples at all. They were sour cider swigging bums, who had left behind dead end jobs with dead end lives, still burdened themselves with the some old mindset from their past. Simply they had no faith no prospects no ambition.

Chris had forgotten what the Great Guru had taught him. You can’t help others before you judge yourself!

 Worzel was always a steady Stan, he would quote,

“I keep myself pickled the drink keeps my body and soul preserved,”

Chris had to admit he was pretty content.

As for Goth Kellie she was like a see saw, when she was drunk she would mutate as dark as the clothes in her wardrobe. Over the winter she had spiralled downwards, even Stan had noticed it. At the end of the last meet up Stan had pulled Kellie up saying,

“You have become as sour as a rough pint of scrummy that has gone off.” Kellie responded by downing her full pint in one, then stood up and slurred,

“Why don’t you poke your head down the bog and flush it; hashtag do us all a favour, Mr Worsal what’s your name,” as she exited the pub with a drunkard’s Waltz.

Chris was becoming more and more stressed as the court case against him was getting nearer. It was for not meeting his part of the payments on the mortgage to the flat Gemma and he was previously buying, before she threw him out with the rubbish not even bothering to dump him in the recycling bin.  It had happened last year when Chris was conveniently made redundant at the height of his drinking in the city. The court case was leading him to drink more, whilst his old friend the devil was weaving his spell of denial.

He was starting to drink at other times besides the Sunny Side meeting and when he was there he began to drink the same amounts as the other two. His education of the law of Karma went down like a lead balloon at the last meeting, so gave up the teaching and just enjoyed the craic, it was more fun!

As for Goth Kellie, she deteriorated to the point of the, Four Hideous Horsemen, as Chris just turned a blind eye.

On the next full moon Chris entered The Red Lion. It was a first he wasn’t the last in their snug, after his third pint it was obvious he was alone. Once again he made his way to the bar, the barman preceded to pour Chris a ‘Nelson Mandela’, Stella; he had no need to ask.

He remained at the bar hugged between fellow lonely drinkers for company, not talking just listening to the background music from his old days until last orders and when the lights dimmed Chris removed himself from the Red Lion with a drunkard’s shuffle, leaving the pub door wide open and the bar to the elements of a stormy winter’s night.

-------------

After the previous meet up Scummpy Stan once again returned to where ever he came from and as usual continued to pickle him self.

As for Kellie on the morning after her last Sunny Side meet up sat on the bench amongst the bird dropping. Fumbling in her pockets for a ciggy she came across a leaflet vaguely remembered the weirdoes from the Temple had given her from the night before, thinking ‘what’s this shit’. By the afternoon Kellie had had enough of the three horses galloping around in her head and visited the mystical temple. She was greeted with,

“You want to exchange your Hideous Four Horsemen for Three Galloping Horses? Welcome to our temple, please enter!”

The End.