3:30
They had Salopian's Oracle on and it was in good form as always. I took my drink upstairs for a rooftop smoke. It was windy but I managed. I took a big swig of my pint of fruity floral golden bliss and looked up at the clouds. I remembered with glee the man beginning with, ahem, V, and how he once told me to read a certain sci-fi novel. "It's the greatest book ever," he declared, to which I laughed and questioned, "what, better than the movie?"
It was then I was apprehended by a glass collector, "Are you OK, Sir?"
Talking to myself again. My biggest fear was that the man beginning with Z didn't turn up, he never fails to bring along complete madness with him. After noticing a sniggering couple looking at me, I supped up and went in search for the real beerfest, keeping one eye over my shoulder for.... Him.
5:30
I had a sneaky whisky for the road and my instincts took me back to the decrepit football ground. This time there was an even bigger queue to get in. A special needs overweight ogre in a security jacket, leather man bag and some kind of earpiece stood snarling at everyone. He looked the part. I finally got in and found a cracking cherry mild. Then it happened.
Stood minding my own business in the outside terrace, two haunting figures glided in to view and stopped right in front of me. It was Zip! And this time he'd brought with him a vagrant known only as Krusty Ken. Krusty Ken has permed hair that hangs halfway down his back. When he turns his head drops of some kind of brown slime fly everywhere. He chews chewing tobacco which drools into his empty pint glass. When it's full he looks for someone who's drinking dark ale and switches with them when they're not looking. He calls it the old cockadoodledoo based on the average victim's reaction. He prides himself on being constantly drunk yet never bought a pint in his life, or won a bet in his life; the bookies love him. The football team that used to play at this very ground have been begging him to sign up with them and this gives him a great enthusiasm for life in general, despite being unlucky, down - and - out by nature and penniless. And he can't play football.
"John boy! Long time no see," Zip initiated.
Krusty wiggled his eyebrows at me in a knowing fashion. I looked to Zip for some sense.
"And I've brought this fine specimen with me."
I shook their hands and the vagrant belched. I noted his flowery shirt.
During some general chit chat and catch up, the vagrant enacted his cockadoodledoo trick on the poor bald man stood behind me. Asked him, inquisitively, "So, vagrant, how's work?"
The bald man spat his drink out: "What the hell!"
All hell broke loose. Baldy got me in a headlock. Zip poked Baldy's mate in the eye. The vagrant's grassy locks got caught around someone else's neck. The scuffle spilled into the pitch and someone threw a football on. Zip flew up the wing and Baldy came in with a sliding tackle, which Zip dodged with ease. He squared the ball to Krusty. Krusty nutmegged Baldy's mate. The crowd were going wild, 'vagrant, vagrant, vagrant...' He passed to me. I had an open goal. I shot. I missed. Baldy got the rebound and scored. His mate held him aloft and carried him off the pitch.
I was ordered onto the sub's bench but I spat my dummy out and went for another drink.
Mongo the security guard spotted me at the bar and asked me to leave so I made a sharp exit. I went to a couple of other pubs, who served me, and somehow ended up back at home.
19:00-22:00
And so it began, and was surprisingly busy even at this early hour. I glazed lovingly across the headers searching for something fruity and then another wonderful memory splashed across my mind, Quantum were here.
I sped feverishly towards ‘Q’ hoping for a mountain of delicious beer offerings and I was not disappointed; 6 supreme ales to choose from (which for those of you not in the know is a superb turnout for a brewery!).
14 pints later…
Myself, The Grey One, JT, PT, TT and GTi all present and with a bunch of brown sticks knocking around and fruity air-cobblers in full flow, things were mighty fine. Conversations ranged from the ludicrous to the omnipotent with jesting the main currency of verbal exchange, and with the copious amount of beer being swigged such as Quantum’s UK Light (3.6), Mandarina Bavaria Pa (4.5) and Citra/Amarillo IPA (5.5), my tastebuds were satisfied handsomely.
Another 9 pints later…
With a comedy football match later and verbal competence now clearly an issue (plus the influx of even more part-time plebs in the venue) certain members of the posse were developing itchy toes and with the amusingly fruity, although largely pointless, contretemps between JT, PT, TT and GTi regarding the whereabouts of the Unicorn pub in Stockport, and whether the Ultras would be there this night, only myself and The Grey One remained… or so I thought.
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