Much as I enjoy my Friday evening, after tennis, sessions at the pub with my usual partners I thought recently that it would be a change to enliven the occasion and decided to invite some interesting famous people along.
I booked the back room of my local, got Biddercome to organise some food, set out a few tables, stocked the bar and off we went. Spicer, Biddercome, Simcock and myself arrived early and eagerly awaited our guests, keen to see who, from the many invited, would actually show up.
The first to arrive was a chubby little Welshman who staggered a bit as he entered the room. He glanced quickly around spied the bar and made a beeline for it. “Who’s that?” whispered Simcock. Being a teacher he is by far the least intelligent of my friends. “That’s Dylan Thomas, the famous poet.” I answered “You’ve been to Wales go and talk to him”. He dutifully crossed the floor to do so, as two of the prettiest men I have ever seen flowed into the room, wearing smocks and silk scarves. Lord Byron and Percy Shelly had arrived. Behind them a nervous little figure with a rather large nose and huge spectacles peered in. “Isn’t that Woody Allen?” said Spicer, the film officiado of our quartet. “Yes go and make him welcome” I said.
Biddercome looked a bit sheepish. “What’s wrong?” I enquired. “I’ve laid on pork sausages and bacon” he muttered. I should have known better than leave the food arrangements to the author of “The Full English Breakfast”.
By now the room was filling up, a moustachioed American confidently strode across to us and introduced himself as Mark Twain, he then quickly fell into conversation with James Joyce and G.K.Chesterton.
Simcock appeared at my shoulder “I’m struggling with Dylan Thomas” he said “I asked him about Wales and he said “Wales is the land of my fathers, and my fathers can have it” then he got stuck into the booze” Then Simcock got excited “Great I see you’ve invited Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen”. I tutted “That’s Oscar Wilde”.
I was really pleased to see Winston Churchill arrive but a bit perturbed when George Bernard Shaw came in accompanied by his friend Lady Astor knowing that the latter had a definite “history” with our greatest ever Prime Minister.
Spicer was now between Woody Allen and the pair of pre Raphaelite poets, he was relating his Thursday afternoon golf round to them, hole by hole, a ritual that we have to put up with every Friday. Byron looked at him rather disdainfully and intoned “Prolonged endurance tames the bold!” then stomped off. Catching the tail end of this conversation G.K.Chesterton stroked his curly locks and stated that in his opinion “Golf is an expensive way of playing marbles!” Mark Twain standing nearby seemed to agree stating that “Golf is a good walk spoiled!” I could see that Spicer was about to get combative so sent Simcock to smooth things over. “I’m a chess man myself” said my Cornish friend. “I failed to make the chess team because of my height!” sighed Woody Allen dolefully. I decided that it was a good time to get the food out.
As Biddercome emerged from the kitchens with plates of, well, “breakfasts” I noted that the bar area was pretty occupied and the drinks supply was taking quite a hammering. “I’ve just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that’s a record!” I heard a slurred Swansea accent inform the room. Lady Astor a renowned prohibitionist muttered something about alcoholics. “An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do!” mumbled Dylan Thomas and set about his nineteenth straight whisky.
Shelly and Byron appeared very conspiratorial in the corner glancing, at regular intervals toward the flamboyantly dressed Oscar Wilde. “I think they are gossiping about you” said Spicer to the playwright at which the Irishman replied aloofly “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about!” and he strode toward the food table. There he found Biddercome’s sausages not quite to his liking. “I like my food dead. Not Sick. Not dying. Dead!” he shouted dramatically and stomped off to the bar.
Biddercome was beside himself but calmed down when Winston whispered to him in his gravely tones “I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equal!” and with that he helped himself to a huge plate of bacon and a portion of sausages that Biddercome himself would have been proud to consume.
Woody Allen and Mrs Astor were next to serve themselves. The American comedian was not so impressed though stating “The food here is terrible” and adding “The portions are too small!”
On seeing Mrs Astor tuck into her sausages Byron snootily said to his friend Shelly that “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking unless it be lobster salad and champagne the only true feminine and becoming viands!” No wonder Biddercome has never come across him at The Little Chef just outside Kirby Lonsdale.
I felt that the evening was not going too well when I heard a bored sounding George Bernard Shaw utter “Alcohol is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life!” and Mark Twain downing his third Rye seemed to agree, muttering “Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough!” I signalled to Simcock to get the cheese out quick.
Personally I thought it was quite a good and acceptable selection but James Joyce was less than complementary growling “A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk!” Spicer whispered that he must be a Vegan. Byron and Shelly strode over and prodded at the Camembert, poked the Double Gloucester and sniffed at the Stilton then without a word left all unselected. “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese!” G.K.Chesterton imparted through a mouthful of Mature Cheddar.
By now Dylan Thomas had fallen off his bar stool, Woody Allen was taking his own temperature and Oscar Wilde was thumbing through a Yellow Book and then it really kicked off when Lady Astor suggested that Churchill had imbibed too much whisky to which he replied “I may be drunk Madam but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly!”
I signalled to the boys that it was a good time to leave and we quietly sneaked out. We went to the downstairs bar and I said “I don’t think that we’ll do this again for a while”. Unsurprisingly they all agreed and we then stared contentedly at the new barmaid’s bosom.
I booked the back room of my local, got Biddercome to organise some food, set out a few tables, stocked the bar and off we went. Spicer, Biddercome, Simcock and myself arrived early and eagerly awaited our guests, keen to see who, from the many invited, would actually show up.
The first to arrive was a chubby little Welshman who staggered a bit as he entered the room. He glanced quickly around spied the bar and made a beeline for it. “Who’s that?” whispered Simcock. Being a teacher he is by far the least intelligent of my friends. “That’s Dylan Thomas, the famous poet.” I answered “You’ve been to Wales go and talk to him”. He dutifully crossed the floor to do so, as two of the prettiest men I have ever seen flowed into the room, wearing smocks and silk scarves. Lord Byron and Percy Shelly had arrived. Behind them a nervous little figure with a rather large nose and huge spectacles peered in. “Isn’t that Woody Allen?” said Spicer, the film officiado of our quartet. “Yes go and make him welcome” I said.
Biddercome looked a bit sheepish. “What’s wrong?” I enquired. “I’ve laid on pork sausages and bacon” he muttered. I should have known better than leave the food arrangements to the author of “The Full English Breakfast”.
By now the room was filling up, a moustachioed American confidently strode across to us and introduced himself as Mark Twain, he then quickly fell into conversation with James Joyce and G.K.Chesterton.
Simcock appeared at my shoulder “I’m struggling with Dylan Thomas” he said “I asked him about Wales and he said “Wales is the land of my fathers, and my fathers can have it” then he got stuck into the booze” Then Simcock got excited “Great I see you’ve invited Lawrence Llewelyn Bowen”. I tutted “That’s Oscar Wilde”.
I was really pleased to see Winston Churchill arrive but a bit perturbed when George Bernard Shaw came in accompanied by his friend Lady Astor knowing that the latter had a definite “history” with our greatest ever Prime Minister.
Spicer was now between Woody Allen and the pair of pre Raphaelite poets, he was relating his Thursday afternoon golf round to them, hole by hole, a ritual that we have to put up with every Friday. Byron looked at him rather disdainfully and intoned “Prolonged endurance tames the bold!” then stomped off. Catching the tail end of this conversation G.K.Chesterton stroked his curly locks and stated that in his opinion “Golf is an expensive way of playing marbles!” Mark Twain standing nearby seemed to agree stating that “Golf is a good walk spoiled!” I could see that Spicer was about to get combative so sent Simcock to smooth things over. “I’m a chess man myself” said my Cornish friend. “I failed to make the chess team because of my height!” sighed Woody Allen dolefully. I decided that it was a good time to get the food out.
As Biddercome emerged from the kitchens with plates of, well, “breakfasts” I noted that the bar area was pretty occupied and the drinks supply was taking quite a hammering. “I’ve just had eighteen straight whiskies. I think that’s a record!” I heard a slurred Swansea accent inform the room. Lady Astor a renowned prohibitionist muttered something about alcoholics. “An alcoholic is someone you don’t like who drinks as much as you do!” mumbled Dylan Thomas and set about his nineteenth straight whisky.
Shelly and Byron appeared very conspiratorial in the corner glancing, at regular intervals toward the flamboyantly dressed Oscar Wilde. “I think they are gossiping about you” said Spicer to the playwright at which the Irishman replied aloofly “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about!” and he strode toward the food table. There he found Biddercome’s sausages not quite to his liking. “I like my food dead. Not Sick. Not dying. Dead!” he shouted dramatically and stomped off to the bar.
Biddercome was beside himself but calmed down when Winston whispered to him in his gravely tones “I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equal!” and with that he helped himself to a huge plate of bacon and a portion of sausages that Biddercome himself would have been proud to consume.
Woody Allen and Mrs Astor were next to serve themselves. The American comedian was not so impressed though stating “The food here is terrible” and adding “The portions are too small!”
On seeing Mrs Astor tuck into her sausages Byron snootily said to his friend Shelly that “A woman should never be seen eating or drinking unless it be lobster salad and champagne the only true feminine and becoming viands!” No wonder Biddercome has never come across him at The Little Chef just outside Kirby Lonsdale.
I felt that the evening was not going too well when I heard a bored sounding George Bernard Shaw utter “Alcohol is the anaesthesia by which we endure the operation of life!” and Mark Twain downing his third Rye seemed to agree, muttering “Sometimes too much to drink is barely enough!” I signalled to Simcock to get the cheese out quick.
Personally I thought it was quite a good and acceptable selection but James Joyce was less than complementary growling “A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what’s cheese? Corpse of milk!” Spicer whispered that he must be a Vegan. Byron and Shelly strode over and prodded at the Camembert, poked the Double Gloucester and sniffed at the Stilton then without a word left all unselected. “The poets have been mysteriously silent on the subject of cheese!” G.K.Chesterton imparted through a mouthful of Mature Cheddar.
By now Dylan Thomas had fallen off his bar stool, Woody Allen was taking his own temperature and Oscar Wilde was thumbing through a Yellow Book and then it really kicked off when Lady Astor suggested that Churchill had imbibed too much whisky to which he replied “I may be drunk Madam but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be ugly!”
I signalled to the boys that it was a good time to leave and we quietly sneaked out. We went to the downstairs bar and I said “I don’t think that we’ll do this again for a while”. Unsurprisingly they all agreed and we then stared contentedly at the new barmaid’s bosom.
No comments:
Post a Comment