Beer Mat Violence

Norbert

Chapter 38

Beer Mat Violence

Two weeks after the darts match, Nunky asked if we could go to Healer Dai’s local pub again “to thank him for leading me to Weggie”, but in truth to have the opportunity to score again. We had another enjoyable evening. In fact, it has become a regular once a fortnight outing. (The team play at home one week, away the next.)

As today has been the most momentous of my life, I call into The Fisherman’s Friend on my way home for a celebratory drink and maybe a chance to brag. It is the first time I have visited during the day and I am worried to see half a dozen menacing attack dogs tied up outside. They slaver and strain at their leashes as I pass.

Inside the tap room a couple of wastrels are playing darts, another four veteran wastrels sit round a table shuffling dominoes; there are two at the bar and another sat reading the paper. It’s like walking into a licensed tattoo parlour. They all glance at the door as I enter, but then go back to what they are doing without acknowledgment. As I approach the bar, one of the wastrels attacks me from behind and pins me to the floor. He has big teeth, bad beery breath and half of one ear missing.

‘It’s me, Weggie, it’s me,’ I yell.

He belches and backs off.

I scramble to my feet and look round in a daze for Nunky. He isn’t here.

I approach the landlord, who is immensely fat and has the biggest and shiniest drinker’s nose I have ever seen – bulbous, veined and red. The sun is barely over the yardarm and he is already intoxicated, which probably explains why I’ve never seen him behind the bar on games night. He smiles benignly and says: ‘Good evening, Thomas. Sorry about that, but we do like to give new customers a friendly welcome. Noggin of Guinness, is it?’ He places a glass under the pump.

He is, at least, too drunk to question my age (the only reason I chose this dump). ‘Err … no, Old Todger, please.’

He continues to pour the Guinness.

‘Do you know my uncle?’

‘It’s probably on the juke box, G17 I think.’

‘Do you know Weggie?’

‘I know all my customers.’ He finishes pouring the Guinness. ‘I’ll just let that settle, Thomas. You can’t beat a good noggin of the black stuff. I can tell you’re a connoisseur.’

‘Does Weggie come here by himself?’

‘Who’s Weggie?’

‘The intoxicated smelly mutt that just attacked me.’

‘Oh, you mean dog Thomas?’

‘I thought you were a goner there for a minute,’ says the wastrel beside me. ‘I assume the dog knows you?’

‘Of course he knows me. He sleeps in my bed.’ (I immediately wish I hadn’t said that.)

‘There’s a word for that,’ says the wastrel.

‘Forbidden love,’ says the wastrel beside him.

‘That’s two words,’ says a domino player.

‘More like petophilia,’ says the paper reading wastrel (and obviously the most intelligent).

‘It’s tickling disgusting whatever it’s called,’ says someone else.

The landlord takes a hefty swallow of my Guinness.

‘I’m my uncle’s nephew.’

‘Well you would be, wouldn’t you?’ says my neighbour.

‘I mean…’

‘Does that mean Weggie is your brother?’ says someone else.

‘That’s incest, petophilia and approximately fifteen years inside,’ says the knowledgeable paper reader.

‘Can I pour you a nice noggin of Guinness, Thomas?’ says the landlord, finishing my drink.

‘Why is Weggie here alone? And why is he drunk?’

‘Nunky drops him off twice a week whilst he goes dancing at the Palais,’ says the wastrel beside me. ‘They don’t allow dogs in the Palais, see. Not even Reggie. Sorry, I mean Weggie. No offence, pal.’

The apology is directed to the dog.

‘I assume all you gentlemen are from the Hardfist estate? And that you know Weggie of old?’

‘We thought he was locked up, serving time,’ says the other wastrel stood at the bar. ‘Imagine our shock when he walks in here one afternoon with the maths genius what scores the darts.’

‘Every dog in the room piddled itself and ran for the door,’ says a domino player. ‘Now we know when to expect him, we take the precaution of leaving our dogs outside.’

‘Weggie’s a reformed character. He’s put his past behind him.’

They all sneer and grunt. ‘Look at the old fogies playing dominoes,’ says one, ‘not a flat cap left between them.’

‘Torn to shreds,’ another confirms.

‘Nothing’s changed far as I can see,’ says a darts player, ‘except for the thing with the beer mats.’

‘When will my uncle be back?’

‘He picks him up about half-five,’ says the wastrel beside me.

I reach for the re-pulled noggin of Guinness, but it is half way down the landlord’s throat.

I look down at Weggie and think about the destroyed hats, the stolen collection box and the intimidation of Butch; the people forced to give up their seats on the bus, the danger to shipping, and wonder if the wastrels are right. Is Weggie just as big a thug as before?

He staggers upright. On cue, one of the domino players immediately places his nearly empty noggin on the floor beside his stool. Weggie laps up the dregs, scrapes a beer mat off his table and lays it at the feet of the paper reader. He turns over the page and ignores it, so Weggie places it on his shoe. The room has gone silent. The man says something derogatory about Macarbrough City and still ignores it, so Weggie patiently places it with great care on his knee.

‘You have to throw it,’ the domino player beside him says urgently. ‘That’s your final warning.’

The wastrel closes the paper, flexes his massive tattooed shoulders and glares down at the tottering Weggie. ‘I ain’t scared of you, you poxy mongrel,’ he sneers, and nudges the beer mat to the floor.

There is a communal and audible intake of breath and the gurgle of Guinness being glugged by the landlord.

Weggie picks the beer mat up and looks the man in the eye.

The wastrel glares back. ‘Watcha gonna do, you mangy mutt?’

Weggie thrusts the beer mat at great velocity into the man’s unprotected groin. The newspaper flies out of his hand. More loud gasps from the onlookers. The victim collapses on the seat and slides to the floor, doubled up and groaning loudly.

The landlord leans curiously over the bar midway through pulling me a third noggin. ‘Was it something you ate, Thomas?’

‘It’s your own fault,’ says the domino player. ‘You have to throw the beer mat. Them’s the rules.’

The next person through the door is Nunky.

‘Noggin of Guinness stout coming straight up, Thomas,’ says the landlord.

Nunky bends over the man in the foetal position, still clutching his gonads. ‘Dregs or beer mat? Which did you forget?’

‘Beer mat,’ he gasps.

‘I’m sure you were given ample warning. You’ve only yourself to blame.’ Nunky spots me. ‘Mi babby. What a surprise.’

‘Enjoy the foxtrot, did you?’

Nunky must be shining, because he seamlessly changes the subject. ‘Since when have you been a cricketer, mi babby?’

I look nervously round the testosterone filled tap room. ‘Though fond of the noble game, I am most certainly not qualified to play it.’

‘Then why are you wearing lipstick?’

‘Because I got kissed for the first time today by Isabel Wringing-Lowd, who is more beautiful than a 1948 Massey Ferguson HF15, and I’m never going to wash it off.’

‘And they call me weird, Thomas.’

‘Two noggins of Old Todger,’ says Nunky, pointing to the beer pump.

‘Sorry,’ says the landlord. ‘My mistake. I’ll just finish pouring this Guinness. It would be a shame to waste it.’

We sit down.

‘How long have you been dancing?’

‘About forty-eight years, mi babby.’

‘Since we moved here, I mean.’

‘This is only my second week. My friend, Cuthbert, put me on to it. That’s him, playing darts. It’s got something to do with me being in the market place, which is actually about a mile away and nowhere near the Palais, and I’m a travel agent ready to throw my hat back into the ring, but if I did that Weggie would tear it up and the ladies will see me as quite a catch, but I’ve never seen any ladies on the fishing boats, mi babby, though Cuthbert says I should have no trouble picking up a nice piece of tail, and now I’m going to fall over…’

Despite being three sheets to the wind, Weggie gets there just in time and prevents Nunky slipping to the floor. Nunky wraps his arms round him and lays his head on his coat and tickles his undersides. The hard men from the Hardfist coo “ahhhh”.

‘See. I told you he’d changed,’ I say.

Cuthbert joins us at the table. ‘He means free agent. Nunky’s not a bad looking old codger, all things considered, and there are some right randy old mares down the Palais, I can tell you. Even a hideous wee beastie like you could pull in the right light and when they’re blotto.’

‘I’ll have you know I kissed a beautiful woman this morning. Tongues and everything.’

‘Yeah, right. I bet the only tongue you’ve ever had in your mouth was in a sandwich.’

I didn’t come to the pub to be insulted. I get enough of that at work. ‘Drink up, Nunky, we’re leaving.’ Carried away with indignation and nearly a noggin of Old Todger, I stand in the middle of the bar. ‘I would ask all you wastrels to please stop leaving the dregs in your noggins for our dog to drink … Come to heel, Weggie … I’ll have you know that this is a flyball champion, a totally reformed character, an athlete in peak condition, at the height of his...’

Weggie belches, totters and collapses, taking Nunky down with him. We take him home the next morning.