My calf muscles felt as though I had just got over a bad attack of pins and needles and were slow in response to my brain’s signal to move. I took a second glance at my feet and noticed I was wearing my moccasin slippers instead of my usual trainers. “Why did I put these on?” I exclaimed to an invisible Mr McKenna. “I told you to put them on,” he gleefully explained. “Oh smart move,” I replied sarcastically. “My feet are going to get soaked, it’s started raining. What the hell is going on and why are you here? Is this some sort of a test?”
“You could call it that,” he replied calmly, “and you know you’re up against the best don’t you.” “So this is really happening is it?” I asked indignantly. “Very much so,” came the reply. “Oh, and I forgot to mention, we’re being filmed by Channel 4.” “So where’s the film crew then?” I asked. “Invisible, but only to you,” came the retort.
By now I was well past the pissed off stage. I said to Paul, “I think we had better call a halt to this right now. I’m not doing anything or going anywhere I don’t want to. This stops right now. I feel bad enough about myself on a good day. I don’t need to be made a fool of in public like this.”
After my speech of disapproval, the now not so smug, Mr McKenna could tell I wasn’t a happy bunny. I had a double dose of nicotine while I listened to Paul apologise profusely. Reluctantly, I agreed to carry on with the charade.
“Three…two…one… you’re under,” he said. “What now,” I asked. “All you have to do is stop yourself from walking where I take you.” I felt the weight of his hand on my shoulder and with that, both my legs from the knees downwards turned to lead. “Still want to go and get your trainers?” Paul inquired. “Yeah why not.”
It was as if he was turning up the intensity of the hypnosis. I hated to admit it but I couldn’t move. The leaden feeling crept up to my waist and was making a B-line for my chest. “It’s a lot easier if you go with it,” Paul said. We walked towards the main road and turned left at the traffic lights.
The hill we were about to ascend towards was just under a mile in length, with a gradient of 1 in 3. The climb was always worth it though. At the top, stood a sight for sore eyes and a parched throat, the King’s Head. With the rain still falling from the grey clouds, we began our ascent. I can vividly recall talking, giggling and swapping jokes with Paul. By the time we reached the pub, my clothes and footwear were sopping wet.
Once inside the lounge bar, I made myself at home placing my drenched moccasins in front of the open coal fire. I sunk my left hand deep into my damp pocket, only to find a small amount of fluff and a solitary penny. “Oh fine.” I muttered under my breath.
Not only was I minus my packet of cigarettes, I didn’t have any beer vouchers either. I then remembered the snout I had placed behind my ear. I reached up to get it. All that remained of my soggy cigarette was the filter, and a few strands of wet tobacco. I felt the side of my neck, only to find the rest of my nicotine parcel had left a trail down to the neck of my T-shirt and beyond. “Oh bollocks,” I mumbled to myself through gritted teeth.
As I sat down at a table near the fire I noticed a young bloke wearing a sharp, dark blue suit. He was opening a packet of Benson and hedges, “Excuse me,” I said hopefully, “you couldn’t spare one of those could you?” The Thatchers’ grandchild looked me up and down and said, “No I can’t.” Jumped up little shit. I could have slapped him. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t desperate. Perhaps I didn’t look desperate enough.
My eternal pub triangle or the reason for being there, what ever that was, now had no sides to it. No cigarettes and no money equalled no beer. This stage of the afternoon had just hit the boring zone. There was no doubt in my mind that I had to re-evaluate my position. For a start, the wonderful Mr McKenna had buggered off without a trace. No hint of a kiss my arse, goodbye, nothing.
I couldn’t ask the barman if he could see an invisible film crew, he was giving me funny looks as it was. Why was I here anyway? This was beginning to feel like a bad joke at my expense. I felt a floating sensation wash over me and things didn’t seem so bad. I walk over to the fruit machine and put my penny in the slot. Through my eyes at least it looked as though I had won the £20 jackpot. Beer and cigarettes flashed from my brain’s memory department like a May Day call.
I pushed the collect button but something was missing. It was the old familiar sound of clanky bits of loose change hitting the pay out tray. I looked back up at the screen to see my winnings had vanished. This was turning out to be, ‘one of those days.’ This is something that still happens to me today but thankfully not so frequently. I have learnt to cope with the start of feeling high.
I run through a mental checklist: Have I missed my medication? Have I eaten? When did I last have a beer? When my mouth is working thirty six times faster than my brain, it’s time to sit down and eat something. Half an hour later my blood’s sugar level has balanced out. My smoking pattern slows down and my caffeine consumption is drastically reduced. Then instead of doing seven things at once, I return to the tried and tested method of, one thing at a time.
I retrieved my coin from the reject slot and took a seat next to a bearded man who was parked on a bench seat near the fire. I asked him if he could spare me some wedge for half a Guinness. “I can’t do the drink,” he answered, “but your more than welcome to a roll-up.” “Oh cheers mate; you’re a life-saver.”
By now I was getting that uneasy feeling you get when you know people are starring at you. So I walked to the end of the bar where there were no customers. I sat on a bar stool wondering what to do next. Oddly enough, the thought of going home didn’t enter my head.
As I looked behind the bar I noticed some long stemmed champagne glasses above the optics. They had been arranged like a coconut shy but I didn’t have a ball, well not as such. Although I was on an abnormal high I was still able to judge distance and height. My grey matter was sifting information, albeit over a trivial task. I was too close to the glass target area to throw my intended missile. Somehow for, reasons best known to myself, I was intent on making up a challenge. My prize, a single shot at the glass coconut shy.
I placed my penny on the floor just behind the bar stool. Then I hooked both of my feet under the foot rail that circled the bar. Sitting in an upright position, I leant over backwards to see if I could pick up the coin.
It was surprisingly easy, now for the real test of strength; could I pull myself back up? I felt every muscle in my torso tense up and the blood was pounding around my head. With my feet still anchored, I raised my body back up to the bar in one slow, meticulous movement. I have to say I had impressed myself with my abdominal power. Now it was time to pick up my prize.
Part 5 next week…
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