I return from my holidays

Posted on by JonnyB

Zigzagging, down the hill from the Village Pub.

A line of Sunday afternoon traffic passes in the opposite direction. They are holidaymakers, who have to go home. But I do not – I can stay here!!! “Yah boo!” I shout, in my head, so that nobody stops their car and gets out and hits me.

I always have mixed feelings about drinking at lunchtime – even on a Sunday. On one hand, I do not like the way that lunchtime drinking uses up the entire day. On the other hand, it involves drinking, and lunchtime, two of my favourite things. I had tucked into the free bar sandwiches with gusto, until they had hardened off beyond reasonable human consumption.

My other problem is that I am always able to haul myself away from the pub after a few drinks in the evening, as they close it. Nowadays, pubs are able to stay open all afternoon, so there is not this safety net available for the lunchtime drunk. Gordon Brown should investigate this and perhaps take action. It will surely make him more popular than he is now.

Eddie left early and morosely, having agreed to attend a local event in the afternoon. Len the Fish remained until his dogg had had his fill of sandwiches; Short Tony stayed for just another half as I lumbered from the double-doors.

I have enjoyed my week of doing nothing in particular except eating and drinking and not looking at the PC screen. I resolve not to go to sleep as I arrive back at the cottage – it would waste the rest of this sunny day. Ten minutes later, Mrs Short Tony pops round. I accept her invitation and head next door with a bottle of wine.

The sun is shining and I am very relaxed and chilled out. It makes for rubbish comedy, but life is good.

We take a week off.

Posted on by JonnyB

The LTLP’s holiday has been planned for ages.

“I’m really busy,” I warn her. “I’ve been so up against it that I’m going to have to work. Sorry.”

She gives me one of her Rosemary West glares, and I change my mind. We do family type things instead.

“Want to wander up there for a game of snooker?” enquires Short Tony, a bit later on the Tuesday afternoon. I tell him that I cannot, as I am busy having a holiday with the LTLP, and that anyway I would not be going up there on a Tuesday afternoon at all, as I am very busy with work under normal circumstances and do not spend my life playing snooker. The LTLP nods vigorously.

It has been nice spending a bit of quality time together – a bit like when we first met but with fewer bad haircuts. We have done some DIY and been to pubs and gone shopping.

“I really can’t,” I tell John Twonil on the telephone later on. The LTLP looks on with a querulous expression. “We are doing nice family things. Plus I don’t know what gave you the impression that I would ever be available to play snooker on a Tuesday afternoon at any point, as I am always busy working.” I replace the receiver hurriedly.

By the time Big A has wandered over on Wednesday morning to see if I fancy a game of snooker, I have got quite defensive. The LTLP says nothing. I can tell what she is thinking.

To be honest, I have very much enjoyed the week. I had forgotten what it was like being away from a PC screen for any length of time, apart from when playing snooker, and I have found that it is refreshing and energising. I will return soon, when the refreshing and energising process is complete.

I take a long, furtive swig.

Posted on by JonnyB

The liquid scalds the back of my throat. I blink in surprise and pain.

“Not bad, is it?” asks Don.

I decline a second helping. The sporting authorities are far keener these days on fostering a clean-living and healthy look – Lord knows what the image-obsessed International Bowls Federation would make of a team that blatantly distributes home-made cider from a vodka bottle before the start of play.

“It tastes a bit… spirited,” I agree, as I stagger towards the mat, coughing in agony, my eyes streaming and face melting.

We complete our handshakes. “I’m very sorry about the green,” says my opponent. “The groundsman was meant to mow it today. We’ll kill him if we get hold of him.”

His tone leaves no doubt that they will, indeed, kill the groundsman should they get hold of him. I make conciliatory noises, as does Big A. It is the same for both sides and frankly anything that evens things up is ok by me. My conciliatory noises are interrupted by more cider-originated coughing; my eyes and ears don’t appear to be working properly.

My first wood stops about ten yards short of the jack. My opponent’s stops next to it. I glare savagely at the uncut grass, a surface fit only for amateurs.

When it’s Nigel’s turn I have a decent idea. “If you can come in round this way,” I shout, “you might be able to knock these two up.”

Big A prods me tactfully in the ribs. “Nigel’s just had his turn,” he explains. I look confused. Somebody offers me more cider.

“I was a bit surprised when they just stole that end and you started muttering ‘fucking bastard,'” muses Big A in the Village Pub afterwards. “You seemed to be getting a bit competitive.” I sip my pint sheepishly. “I was having a bit of trouble getting into the zone,” I reply.

The season is but a few matches old, and we are already looking like we might challenge for honours. I need to keep my head if we are to keep this standard up.