There was the usual crowd, some of whom never seem to want to go home and permanently live in the place. The losers in life on a downward spiral who find comfort in a beer barrel, bottle of beer or some other alcoholic beverage. I elbowed my way to the bar where Bob the barman, with his colourful black and red tattoo of a jailer’s chain around his neck and heavily bleached hair that stood on end like a squirrel’s tail, looked in my direction. Moving his head slightly to show that he recognised me he pulled a pint and slapped it on the counter. “How goes it Jack mate?” he asked, leaning forward in such a way that I knew something else was coming before I had the chance, or inclination, to answer. “What d’you think of the fight last night?”
“Read it in my column tomorrow, but in a word, lamentable.” I said putting down a pocket of change and moving away from the bar. There’s nowhere in the world that compares to a British pub, especially at peak periods, with its shoulder-to-shoulder, hustle-and-bustle atmosphere, the clanging of glasses and cigarette smoke that you can cut with a knife; music blaring in the background that no-one listens to or can decipher. “Jack.” I recognised the tobacco saturated voice of Henry Armstrong and simultaneously felt a slap on the back. It was his usual way of attracting attention and, at times irksome, especially when I had a mouthful of beer. I coughed and spluttered as it went down the wrong way and waited expectantly to hear what was coming. Henry, who had been a useful amateur boxer in his day, was a nice guy and had been the sports editor and my boss for several years. It was people like him who had kept me in this country for the last ten years. That, and the warm beer that I sure miss every time I go home.
“How would you like to go to New York to cover the Robert Jones-Manny Carbide fight at The Garden next month?” he asked.
“Do I have a choice?” I responded looking him in the eye and trying not to waver. “And can I go first class?” A question I always put to him whenever I had to go abroad for the paper. He had never yet agreed, but I didn’t give up trying.
“No, you don’t. And no, you can’t. There’s a recession on for crissake. You can go club. Just you. No lady friends.” He said with a grin, after taking a gulp of beer from his pint glass. I shrugged my shoulders, why the hell would I want to take some broad with me to the Big Apple? I might end up marrying her. On second thoughts I didn’t think that was likely.
“When do I go?” I asked, probably too anxiously as it left no room for negotiation.
“As you know the fight’s on the 25th. I thought that as you hadn’t been home for some time you could go when you like, within reason,” he offered. “As long as you book holiday for anything over three days,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and moving away.
“Why d’you have to spoil it.” I called after him. The thought of going home for a break at the Company’s expense was always an attractive proposition and I hadn’t been to New York for nearly two years.
John Towers, one of my work colleagues shuffled over, his bulk leading from the front and gin and tonic held precariously in a shaky hand.
“I saw you talking to that young lad just now, Jack. What was the punch-up about?” he asked, towering over me from his six foot six frame like a pub garden parasol.
“Bullying.” My motto, ‘never use two words when one will do’ and ‘don’t waste time answering useless questions’.
“Bullying? Seriously? As I arrived the biggest of the bunch almost went through the shop window from pretty impressive punches from the young white kid before he comprehensively did the other two.” I described, as best I could, what I’d seen and what the kid had told me afterwards.
“I thought he was great but you’re the expert, what did you think?” he asked, looking more puce than normal as the G and T started to take effect.
“Bubba,” I said [my nick name for most of my friends as it saves on memory power and means that I am never stuck in trying to remember somebody’s name], “one thing life has taught me is never to get carried away on first impressions.” And boy, have I been a sucker on first impressions. My memory went back to too many occasions when I’d been convinced that I’d seen a world beater, only to find later that they’d fallen by the wayside due to sex, drugs, booze or any other excuse that they could think of at the time.
Although I looked forward to my evening pint and a few jokes with the guys I wasn’t, and never have been a guy for the booze, which some of my colleagues had difficulty understanding. “I must go,” I said as I downed my pint, “I’ve got work to do. You bums can stay here all night if you like.” A great bunch of guys and gals but their capacity and desire for the hard stuff was more than mine.