Authors: Lauren Davies
‘Ooh, look out girlfriend,’ Maz chuckled in a mock-Texan accent. ‘Wooee, she’s got spunk. Lordee, that afternoon in the pub did her some good, she’s back to her old self again!’
We laughed till we felt sick. It was a rare moment to savour. At that point we both realised that we were relying
on each other to keep our ambitions alive. To be honest, things couldn’t get much worse, so what did we possibly have to fear?
9th January, 9:30 p.m.
Auld Vinny’s birthday party was really just an excuse for Maz to reduce the draughts to 90p a pint and get the punters in the door. Over the previous two months, the pub had been partially revamped by the brewery to resemble an olde worlde inn. The idea was to target families who would come for a quiet Sunday shandy and a scampi basket meal. The pool table, pinball and fruit machines had been removed and replaced with a no-smoking section, sepia photographs, and low lighting. Maz had tried to tell the powers-that-be that no amount of interior design and classical music could possibly change the make-up of the Scrap Inn. Mr and Mrs White-collar, their two-point-four children and golden retriever would not dream of parking their Audi family saloon within hiking distance of the pub for fear of returning to find out the parts had been auctioned by the local kids, piece by piece, to the scrap metal yard across the street.
Maz had been offended that her regulars were not considered worthy enough to drink the brewery’s beer, paid for with their hard-earned cash or social. Inevitably her words of wisdom had passed unheeded. The plans for reform had been implemented almost entirely before someone in a high place suddenly woke up to reality and withdrew the budget. The madcap scheme had done nothing more than create a pub with bizarrely conflicting decor and alienate the rough and ready characters who had brought in the profits.
The official manager, Gordon, a quietly confident businessman from Edinburgh, was rarely to be seen inside the pub. He preferred, he said, to manage at a distance, usually of around 200 miles. He never confessed to being scared of the customers but he nearly had a hernia every time he walked through the door. Rumour had it that the brewery planned to sell if profits stayed low, so Maz’s plan was an attempt to rejuvenate sales and get the pub back to normal. I had started to feel of some use as we had collaborated to find ways of increasing the Scrap Inn’s popularity. Keeping my mind occupied was the best medicine, I had decided, and better for my figure, as troughing obscene quantities of anything fattening was the only other option.
‘Where’s the bloody pool table gone man?’ yelled a yellow-puffer-jacketed skinhead from across the bar.
‘It got taken away, I’m afraid,’ I replied, smiling as widely as possible in a ‘please don’t punch me’ kind of way.
‘What a load of bloody shite,’ came the reply, ‘gis us a pint then woman.’ (Polite as ever.)
The pub was beginning to fill up as rumours of the 90p pints spread like wildfire through the nearby estates. Auld
Vinny was also a popular character with the locals, who liked to listen to his ramblings. The tales usually involved his days at sea, his sexual conquests (even at the age of 73), the state of the government or whatever else took his fancy. A lot of people had come, allegedly to help celebrate Vinny’s birthday, but when he failed to show up, they seemed happy to settle for the cheap pints and bowls of scampi fries. Hardly surprising really.
‘Having fun, Jen?’ Maz shouted as she clomped past me to serve another of the loud-mouthed puffer-jacket people encamped at the far end of the bar. There seemed to be an unwritten rule of puffer-jacket hierarchy, I had decided, dictating who bought the rounds, who got to sit on a bar stool and who got to talk the loudest. I had so far deduced that tango orange came before neon yellow but both were surpassed by faux-aluminium foil reflective silver.
‘Magic,’ I answered sarcastically, frantically shaking my head. ‘This is bloody hard work. Perhaps we shouldn’t try and attract all these people.’
‘Aye, I’m sweating like a pig,’ said Maz, flapping her hands under her armpits and pulling dramatically at her top.
As usual, Maz had opted for the simple-yet-sexy look. Blue men’s Levis that hung off her slim hips and showed off her ridiculously long legs, Nike trainers and a crop top T-shirt with ‘Babe’ scrawled across the chest. I had wanted one myself but decided the writing would have to be minute to fit ‘Fat Miserable Heffer’ across the front. I had opted, instead, for a black velour catsuit which was up there with pleated culottes and pop socks in the chart of desperately unflattering women’s fashions. The jumpsuit demons had also
encouraged me to apply eight layers of red lipstick and to diffuse my hair to within an inch of its orange life. All I needed was a pair of Christmas-tree decoration earrings and a cigarette holder and I would have been in the running for landlady at the Rover’s Return. For some reason, the disasters in my life had made me lose any iota of style and decorum that I may have previously possessed. In an attempt to ‘wash that man right out of my hair’ I had achieved an alteration of image which left me looking and feeling ridiculous and which made me sink even deeper into depression. As I’d learned while staying with Maz, the talk shows always blamed it on ‘low self-esteem’. I preferred to blame everything on Jack.
Maz and I had spent the whole morning in Newcastle undergoing an intensive session of retail therapy. My aim had been to find a young, dynamic, foxy, with-a-hint-of-sporty wardrobe to get myself back on track. Maz’s goal had simply been to spend until she had more carrier bags than Tescos and to inflict grievous bodily harm on her bank balance.
Personally, I hate trying on clothes in shops. If I am already feeling hassled by the crowds, communal changing rooms only serve to heighten my anxiety levels. They must have been invented by a man with a fetish for groups of semi-naked women, sweating together in a horribly confined space. Of course, that would cover about two-thirds of the male population (the remaining third prefer open spaces). Not only must we endure the wall-to-wall mirrors, the smell of sweaty feet and the dangerously low oxygen levels, but we are also forced to bare every lump, bump,
stretchmark and orange peel plantation in the name of recreational shopping. More often than not, it’s always the day that I choose to wear the slightly faded, holey granny pants that pull up to just below my boobs (which are, of course, covered with the grey, ill-fitting ten-year-old bra).
At the fifth communal hell-hole of the day, I had finally put my foot down and refused to ‘submit to this hideous torture any longer’. I had sat gloomily in one corner while Maz tried on (and suited) all two-dozen of her ‘three items only please’. I had watched with amusement and disgust as endless Kate Moss and All Saints wannabees strutted their stuff in front of the mirrors while the latest boy-band love song CD (on repeat) ate into my brain.
‘Be honest, Stacey, does this make me look fat?’ asked one beanpole loudly of her equally emaciated friend. I’d seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil. Such words as ‘stick insect’, ‘toothpick’ and ‘bitch’ had instantly sprung to mind.
‘Na Tracey, it looks cool lass. Like really sexy.’
Eugh, even their names rhymed. I half expected them to break into song and start doing backflips across the room, although there would have been a real danger of structural damage to the trowelled-on make-up. Anything more stressful than pouting was a definite no-no. Stacey and Tracey had eventually opted for matching pink and white PVC hot pant and jacket ensembles. Their next port of call had probably been to pick up their fake IDs and acid tabs. They had soon been replaced by what seemed like a hundred more Spicy clones. Leopard skin, combat trousers and Lycra tops that would hardly clothe a small bee had flashed before my eyes from all angles. It seemed bodies were being stopped
from developing beyond the age of 15, while eyelashes, shoe heels and attitudes were on the increase. Finally I could take it no longer and had plucked Maz from the madness. I had grabbed the first item of clothing, thrown the rest into the manicured hands of a completely uninterested shop assistant, and had headed for the nearest bakery to drown my sorrows in two extra large cream doughnuts (commonly referred to by Maz and I as cellulitees, for obvious reasons). Hence, my extremely unflattering and inappropriate choice of outfit for the evening’s pub bash.
‘Hiya gorgeous,’ growled a balding fat man through his wispy ginger goatee. I could hear the static from his black and orange shell suit as he leaned over the bar, bringing his chubby red face to within punching distance. ‘Ten pints for the lads in the corner and mek sure ya give us good head.’
Oh yes, that’s a good one, ha ha, mmm, very good. I forced a smile as his tribe of equally gross friends erupted in what could only be described as ‘guffaws’.
I concentrated on pulling the pints and prepared myself for the next line. Sure enough …
‘Ooh pet, you pull that long wooden handle like a true professional. Fancy getting yer hands round somethin’ even bigger?’ (More guffaws.)
Ho, ho, ho, oh stop, you’re splitting my sides. It was like watching Jimmy Tarbuck without the aid of canned laughter. The ten pints were poured and delivered amid a barrage of similarly hilarious puns. Just when I thought I’d escaped, my cue-ball-headed admirer, armed with a pint of Dutch courage, returned for the second act.
‘So darlin’, what’s a southerner like you doin’ in a place like this eh?’ He’d obviously got to number one of 101 chat-up lines for sad people. Perhaps by the fourth pint we’d be on, ‘Aren’t you tired cos you’ve been running around in my dreams all night.’
My plastic smile returned and I forced myself to answer. ‘Just working to earn some pennies. Maz is my best friend so we help each other out.’
‘Well me and the lads think yer canny. Fancy a date?’
I struggled to find a suitably negative answer, while steering around the truth that I found him completely repulsive.
‘Er, sorry … I’m really busy at the moment.’ (Fantastic. Nothing like a witty put-down to put him off the scent.)
‘Howay. Not reet now. After yer shift like.’ (He was persistent anyway, worse luck.)
‘Hmm, well sorry but I … I’ve actually g … got a … a boyfriend. Big man, very active. Yes … six foot four actually, and wide. Very wide. Gets possessive.’
‘Where is he then?’
‘Karate. He teaches self-defence … um … extremely intelligent though. Hmm … speaks ooh at least four languages. Watches
Countdown.
Does the number puzzle in half the time. You know … the clever type … Not a Himbo.’ (Not that I’m one to overdo my answers.)
For some reason, I find it physically impossible to say, ‘No, piss off, in your dreams mate,’ even to someone whom I find completely loathsome. Even if there is a zero per cent chance of me ever crossing paths with that person again, I still can’t bring myself to be cutting. I suppose I just don’t
want to hurt their feelings when they’ve gone to the trouble of chatting me up. Pathetic really.
‘Sorry … I’m really flattered, thanks.’ I waffled on, hoping he’d get the message.
‘Howay, I only wanted a good shag love.’ Ginger burped loudly and headed back to his cave. ‘I just like lasses with big bums,’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘Ya need something ta hold on to, ye kna. A whole lotta woman.’
OK, so he’d definitely got the message. The Neanderthals guffawed loudly. Bastard. Pig-ugly lard bucket.
‘Give me a match and I’ll light your shell suit,’ I muttered under my breath.
Even Gazza’s fatter, ginger brother didn’t fancy me. What chance did I possibly have of finding everlasting love? Zero, nada, zilch, rien. I clenched my bum cheeks and growled ‘Whaddywant?’ at the next customer.
Maz was stoked to see the pub so full for a change. She breezed around the bar with a constant smile on her face, laughing and joking with everyone she met. They all loved her. I felt like the shorter, fatter, miserable friend who would be overlooked by all the boys and picked last for games. With so many different characters within the four walls of the Scrap Inn, though, I did notice a buzz in the air. In the rare moments when I forgot to feel sorry for myself, I found the atmosphere strangely intoxicating, not to mention intoxicated.
Auld Vinny arrived half an hour before last orders and proudly introduced us to his dozen new-found female friends, the local lesbian darts team. Bold, buxom and
boisterous, they were twelve good men and true. Maz immediately signed them up for her newly invented fortnightly league. Auld Vinny quizzed them incessantly about how they ‘did it’. I rapidly concluded that, judging by this lot, if I ever developed lesbian tendencies, I’d have to shave my head, spoon myself into black drainpipe jeans and maroon DM boots, and change my name to Conny Lingers. If my love life didn’t improve rapidly, it wouldn’t be long before I got the clippers out.
After a few too many offers of ‘and one for yerself, pet’, I began to feel a bit worse for wear. Too little blood in my alcohol stream, I concluded. At such moments I find there is a very fine line between giggling hysteria and manic depression. I inadvertently settled for the latter.
‘Why is my love life so continuously crap?’ I moaned, as Maz and I ducked to avoid the pickled eggs and beer mats that had been selected as ammunition for an impromptu pub war.
‘It’s not that bad,’ she replied as an egg whizzed past and exploded all over a framed photograph of ‘Gordon, your Manager’. A definite improvement. ‘You’re just at a low point, Jen, it’ll pick up.’
‘Low point. Any lower and I’ll be scouting for a date with an Australian bush pig. We’re talking nun-status here.’
‘Ah bollocks,’ Maz laughed, narrowly avoiding an eggy missile, ‘I’ve seen people flirtin’ with you all neet. You’ve got loads of blowks lookin’ at you.’
‘Yeah great. Three lesbians, a ginger slaphead who gets his fashion inspiration from Jimmy Saville, and a 60-year-old whose chat-up line was, “If I tek oot me falseys I can suck
the fillin’ oot a meat pie in four seconds, straits!” Meanwhile you leave a trail of drooling men in your wake who at least all pass the subhuman standard. It’s not fair.’
I considered stamping my feet and throwing a tantrum, but at that moment a jet-propelled egg flew overhead and came into contact with Maz’s shrine to Ricki Lake. Sacrilege!
‘A’reet, ya bunch of wankers!’ Maz roared. ‘Fun’s over.’
She jumped up and aimed a blow at the egg bomber’s face. He stumbled backwards, holding his nose. Maz turned on the crowd. ‘Howay that’s enough. Sit doon or I’ll twat the lotta yas.’