Our resident Scouser, whose name has been changed to Disposable Cam for legal reasons, visits London’s grand and great boozers to sit, think and drink over life. At The Viaduct in St. Paul’s, virginal beauties adorn the wall, smiling at Wednesday-worn men in macs.
‘The Viaduct’ illustrated by Noelle Northstar
On a wall, paintings of virginal beauties, reclining with their rose hair tumbling over their shoulders, stared out at men with mid-week stubble.
The men wore macs or heavy overcoats and were shifting uneasily, lost in that lull which strikes on Wednesday evening. The torment of Monday morning past, the tedium of Tuesday over, and the promise of the week slowly rising towards that paradise of Saturday morning and Sunday afternoon.
Gruffly the tones of a South Londoner born and bred broke my reverie. “I’m useless to my family. Don’t make any money doing this anymore.” His friends around him nodded sincerely. His thoughts were theirs too.
The men wore macs or heavy overcoats and were shifting uneasily, lost in that lull which strikes on Wednesday evening
That sudden pang of honesty and sensitivity seemed a little obscene as it left his lined lips. He had glaring pools of green menace for eyes. He cannot have been much over fifty and his satchel bag weighed heavy on his frame. The men shared bitter jokes and checked their wrist watches pondering the train home under the pub’s crimson ceiling.
Inevitably there were delays and the rain mounted to a lashing fury. The once-clear windows trickled constantly with water until only the faintest hint of amber distinguished the onrushing traffic.
Watching this group, a strange feature of pubs today became apparent.
Three pints on any evening from Monday to Thursday is now conventional and any more would be seen as a little reckless. If the drinks are paid for by rounds the average night out on those days comes to between £15 and £25 per person depending on the size of the group.
Watching this group, a strange feature of pubs today became apparent
On Friday three pints would be a small amount and double figures are the norm. The obvious reason for this is the consequences are less immediate as most people have Saturday off.
Taking stock, I have been in a bar every weeknight for over a month, meaning each Saturday has begun with a battle to find the rough of my mouth. Despite this unpleasant start to my weekend, I still hold it up as celestial during the dreary plod into work.
There is much wisdom in the old saying that possession is seldom as satisfying as pursuit. That is the reality. People do not want to experience their dreams. The man at the bar, anxious about his family, in the week dreams of Saturday morning spent with them. But when Friday night comes he drinks himself senseless, so the dream doesn’t fade into reality.
And yet, closer observation reveals he cannot completely conceal it. Yes, he has veins protruding on his forehead from years of toil and it is true his stature is small, wiry, and with not an inch of flesh wasted. Every movement driven towards a pointed purpose. The skin on his face stretched after victory and defeat. Torn this way and that.
But at the bar, a glimmer of his dream throbbed gently. “I’ll have a pint of Peroni, please.” But then coyly, with eyes averted, he whispers to the barmaid, so his friends don’t hear: “With a dash of lime!” That is his sign he has ‘moved-up’ in the world, but still he hides it and cherishes it, expecting at a moment a twist will take it all away.
For him, Peroni and lime refreshes the dream when it looks stale but drowns it out when it comes too near. He is torn this way and that, tormented his dream will turn into a tragedy.
‘I’ll have another’, he said as I ambled out. Had he broken the three-pint barrier? It was only Wednesday after all.
Disposable Cam is a Scouse journalist. He is in the pub.
