A Right Old Fiasco in Borrington

by M W Foolster

  And as for their customer service skills, they could win an award for the lack of them. Every night without fail, their first priority is to ensure that they're shielded from public view behind a mountain of crisp boxes, always so carefully erected at the beginning of their shift. The occasional burst of conversation from their direction confirming that they are at least still alive, well perhaps, and a huffy demonstration of annoyance if forced to vacate their corner to actually serve somebody. Drink slammed down in front of you, damp change shoved back at you, always managing to slop the drink over the bar before sauntering off back to their hidden lair. Yep, the pair of them had truly mastered the art of pissing off the poor sods who, like himself, contributed so willingly towards their salaries. Well, the male customers at any rate. On the very rare occasions that female customers did venture into the pub, the transformation in the pair of them was nothing short of remarkable, rediscovering the ability to communicate with words instead of the customary grunting sounds and sign language.

  But it's the thoroughly obnoxious Ryan with his serious attitude problem that he loathes most, would be more at home in a freak show than working a bar. Yep, the spotty faced youth with his purple mohican and excessive body piercings, in fact more hoops through his lips than the average curtain pole, is quite possibly one of the most repulsive individuals he'd ever had the misfortune to come across. Is so tempted to purchase the most powerful magnet he can find, sit back with a pint whilst pointing it at Ryan and just enjoy the show. Their personal vendetta had started six months previously, the very first time he’d ventured into the Jolly Roger and if he’d any sense, it would have been the last. His second night in the bedsit, had decided to explore the area and had come across the pub by chance. Remembers staring into the bottom of his pint glass when an overwhelming need for a cigarette had led to the first conversation of sorts with Ryan. The sneered response to his request, a stubby finger pointing towards some back doors and a snorted.

  “Yer, out there.”

  Jason had assumed it was a beer garden, hopefully with working heaters because it was a chilly night, but instead, he'd found himself standing in a small and poorly lit delivery yard. Stacked full of metal beer kegs and wooden pallets, the only exit being the two huge wooden gates creaking in the wind, barbed wire running across the top of them. Cigarette finished, he’d attempted to get back into the pub, only to find that the doors when closed were self-locking. He'd started banging on them and shouting, but Ryan was nowhere to be seen. And then he'd spotted Toby. Had continued thumping and kicking at the door, yelling at the top of his voice in a desperate attempt to get Toby's attention. But the equally repulsive barman, with his distinctive spiky black hair, hadn't even flinched, had just stood at the bar staring aimlessly into space. To this day, he is still unsure as to whether Toby had deliberately ignored him. He'd still been pounding on the doors two hours later, and could only watch on in frustration as the pub had emptied. And then the lights had gone off. Having suddenly found himself plunged into darkness, he'd sat shivering on a damp wooden pallet struggling not to panic, cursing himself for having forgotten his mobile. That was until lights had flickered on in the flat above the pub. Yelling for all his life was worth, he'd been so relieved to see a woman’s head eventually appear at the window. But it wasn't quite the reaction he'd expected from her, anything but sympathetic as she’d bellowed down at him.

  “What the fuck you doing in there you thieving bastard?”

  She'd then shouted instructions to somebody else in the flat. Five minutes later, a burly male swings open the doors to the pub, boxing gloves covering his meaty hands and threatening to batter his head in. It didn’t help that the woman was still leaning out of the window shrieking down at them,

  “Go on Micky, smash the thieving fucker’s teeth in. Jab Mick, use the jab. Pound his brains out. Use the hook to the body, slow the bastard down. That’s it. Now you smash his nose all over his face. Go on babe, take him out. Mash him up good.”

  Having pranced around him for near on ten minutes swinging punch after punch, fortunately all so slow and predictable that none had actually connected, Mick had attempted to clobber him with an almighty haymaker. Yet again it missed. But now off balance, Mick had gone flying head first into the stacked beer kegs. He'd then scrambled around between the collapsed beer barrels gasping for air, desperately trying to get back up on his feet. And after what seemed like an eternity of grovelling, a sigh of relief when Mick had finally relented and accepted his explanation. Looked too exhausted to do otherwise in all honesty. The window then slammed shut above them, a seething female voice shouting,

  “Useless bastard.”

  A hefty slap on his back accompanied by a deep guttural laugh at his expense and then Mick was pouring him a few apologetic whiskeys. Despite everything, he had really taken a liking to Mick but as for his wife Lily, well, the less said the better.

  He had laughed along with Mick on being told that the little shits Ryan and Toby were his nephews and that he only kept the useless sods on because they were so cheap. Well that and the fact that they're family. Ultimately, he was looking to sell up and retire down to the coast but in the present climate, easier said than done. At that point, Mick had just sighed and dropped his head, looked a beaten man. He was now sworn to secrecy as Mick had explained that the pub had been put on the market near on a year back but so far, not even a sniff of interest. And then came the fatal mistake. Most likely because of the whiskeys he’d just downed, and before he’d had time to think it over, he was enthusiastically agreeing to set up a few pub quiz nights for Mick, maybe even get a team together to help stir up some much needed business. Staggered home gone 3am having agreed to return later that evening, to discuss it in more detail. And somewhat foolishly with hindsight, he’d kept his word.

  Mick ensured that the two vamps apologised to him, albeit reluctantly. He could see the contempt in their eyes on discovering that Mick had not only agreed to the quiz nights, but had warned them both they'd be held accountable if they weren't a success. Ryan was suddenly transformed into something resembling a human being if only for that one evening, even offering to buy him a pint of beer to make amends. Somewhat foolishly, he'd accepted, dismissing the evil glint in Ryan's eyes as paranoia as he'd gratefully gulped it down. But had started to grow suspicious on seeing the vamps constantly glancing across at him, sniggering as they'd exchanged whispers. And later that evening he'd found out why. Painful stomach cramps on the way home, head spinning violently, barely made it back through his front door. And then he'd literally ran to the bathroom. Spent the night and most of the following day either bending over, or sat on the toilet. Stuck to the bottled beer for several months following that.

  But getting back to last night. The pub had a Halloween display including that sodding ghoul as its centre piece. He remembers Ryan fiddling around with it, discreetly kicking at it and swearing under his breath. The pub was selling that lethal Witch Ale to mark Halloween. And it didn’t help it was on special offer. No, he really shouldn't have been drinking anything that strong, not on a near empty stomach. No wonder he feels like death warmed up. And finally the memories from last night come flooding back.

  'The poxy pub quiz team, why do I even bother? Was originally my idea I suppose. Not as though we ever win though. Even top three would make a pleasant change. And every time we do lose, I end up drowning my sorrows. That’s right, I was having an in depth conversation with the guys as to how we might change our strategy for next time. Tony yawning before offering to get another drink in, Phil making a polite excuse and heading home. If only I’d been that sensible. Then we'd moved on to the whisky chasers. Tony yawning incessantly, obviously engrossed by my explanation as to where we were going wrong with our tactics. Remember him constantly looking down at his watch, that’s when he wasn’t staring aimlessly around the pub. And then he'd become aware of the two women stood at the bar, who I recognised as being from one of the opposing quiz teams. They’d
kept looking across at us, smiling flirtatiously. The pub as dimly lit as ever, or they’d most likely of seen that I was already well on my way to getting totally legless and probably lost interest. He’d nudged me so hard I'd nearly fallen off the chair and whispered something in my ear about not seeing any wedding rings. He was obviously interested. But then again, he would be, like a dog on heat most nights. I’d quite happily of ignored them myself, was feeling anything but sociable at that point. But Tony, well being Tony, doesn’t take much encouraging and just couldn't resist. Remember that I'd suddenly needed a pee. So a quick dash to the Gents, squelched across the wee soaked floor to the urinal, mercifully too drunk to be bothered by the stench. Had gone to wash my hands afterwards but the pushdown tap had turned on so forcefully, water had splashed all over my jeans. A vague recollection of attempting to dry them under the hot air blower. I'd emerged to find Tony now standing at the bar talking to the two women, him beckoning me over. Remember thinking to myself that I am now a single man and Cathy certainly seems to have moved on, so maybe it’s time I did likewise. That it would do me good to socialise with female company. I smiled across at them, thinking so far so good and that maybe the night would end on a high. Downed my whisky, picked up my pint and sauntered across to them, trying to look all macho. And, as if in tandem, all three of them lowered their eyes to my crotch region. I did likewise. Ohhh... A distinctive wet patch, clearly visible on my faded denim jeans. An uncomfortable silence. I looked up, their eyes were still staring down, fixated on my crotch, I lowered my eyes again. Staring at the wet patch with them, willing it to dry immediately, consumed with embarrassment, thinking that this just can't be happening. When I’d finally found the courage to raise my head, both women were clutching at their bags, vaguely remember them mumbling some excuse about a last train and then they were gone. Tony totally pissed at me. He eventually calmed down, laughed when I’d explained what had happened in the toilets and said something about me practicing my socialising techniques with the bloody female ghost in the display. And something about a walrus and fish'.

  The tram screeches to a halt at North Borrington. The normal stampede towards the exit doors, and battle ensues between passengers trying to exit and those attempting to barge their way on, incentive being the rich pickings of a seat. With a clever little manoeuvre that a rugby scrum-half would be proud of, Jason manages to skip on to the platform unscathed. A skinny male in a red woolly hat and spots to match, wearing a black fleece jacket that's far too big for him, thrusts a newspaper into his hand. Decides it would be rude not to accept and rams it into his sports bag. Lady luck is definitely smiling on him, and perhaps it won't be too bad a day after all because his bus is just approaching the stop opposite. He darts across the road and is seated on it within minutes. Leaning back, he closes his eyes, head still throbbing but nothing another coffee won't put to rights. Now what was it about that bloody ghoul? Something had happened when he’d left the pub. No, still can’t remember. He looks down at the free newspaper, the Borrington Informer, straight to the back page but the sports news isn’t particularly interesting, England losing in the Cricket. England lost in the Rugby, England lost in the footy. Nothing new there then. Back to the front page, now notices that the main story is by a reporter he knows personally, Jenny Forster, often thinks of her as being the people’s champion. Despite warnings to the contrary from her editor, she refuses to buckle under pressure from above and ensures that any story relating to Borrington Council’s mismanagement makes headline news. He nods approvingly as he reads through the article promoting the desperate need for financial investment in the borough's less affluent areas, and if nothing else, a fairer slice of the budget for those most in need, notably Caulston.

  The London Borough of Borrington, sandwiched between Croydon and Bromley, covers an area of just under ten square miles and is by far the least populated of the London boroughs. And yet, it is also one of the wealthiest. The borough is divided by the inspirational River Prude, offering many spectacular views along its route, and can boast many green areas including the enormous country park that stretches from Borrington town right through to the very affluent and thriving Knarlswood in the north. Knotston and Thorston, with their wide range of pubs and restaurants, to the west of the borough have definitely benefited from recent investment but the same cannot be said for the densely populated and diverse Caulston to the south. Borrington itself is still home to the largest of the boroughs six libraries, Borrington Central, although the town hall and council offices have long since moved to Knarlswood. Despite their excellent transport links into Central London, both Borrington and Caulston are in desperate need of regeneration, the lack of investment over the previous few decades is becoming ever more evident. However, they're considered the poor relations to Knarlswood, Knotston and Tharston which inevitably receive more investment, and the larger share of council funded initiatives. Despite Councillor Fuker's assurances on coming to office that both Borrington and Caulston would be targeted for a substantial investment programme, the Informer has received leaked information from a reliable source that just the opposite is true. And despite the fact that both Borrington and Caulston having been highlighted in a recent Government report as having over 30% of its under 16s living below the poverty line, the council will introduce yet more austerity measures resulting in further cuts to essential services, and most notably, it will be Borrington and Caulston that will suffer most. The much needed road maintenance programme is set to be scrapped, the proposed building of the desperately needed social housing on the old Borrington brewery site will be scrapped, yet more care homes, nursery schools and the few remaining youth clubs also now earmarked for closure in early 2015. In fact, our source informs us that the new and now approved council budget will see the borough struggling to maintain any of its vital services. And yet, the proposed refurbishment of the council offices in Knarlswood has now been approved with the estimated cost being somewhere in the region of £1,000,000.

  Jason turns the page, skips the rest of the articles and gasps loudly at reading the headline relating to the library, drawing a few apprehensive glances from his fellow passengers as he does so.

  Borrington Central library set to close

  An extraordinary ‘Council Meeting’ has been called on Monday 3rd November to discuss the imminent closure of Borrington Central Library. Despite widespread protests and the 'Use it or Loose it' campaign, it appears that the council are refusing to back down. Councillor Fuker is quoted as stating that the necessary funding required to bring the library up to a reasonable standard would place an unacceptable financial burden on the Borrington Council tax payer. The costs associated with maintaining the eighty year old building can no longer be justified and it would be irresponsible of the council to continue to do so. Far from depriving the Borrington residents of a much valued service, the substantial savings made available from the closure of Borrington Central would enable the council to operate a newly refurbished library from a shop in the high street. It will inevitably lead to a staffing restructure but rest assured that the quality of the service offered will not diminish, in fact, we can guarantee just the opposite. Borrington Council is fully committed to implementing its community engagement programme and will be holding a series of consultations as to how the community can be best served by the library service in future years.

  Anger rising within him as he pulls the mobile from his pocket, groans at seeing there’s still no signal. He just hopes that he gets to speak to the Union Rep before the rest of the library staff get to read the article. Attempts to keep his mind occupied by flicking through the rest of the paper, the next article to catch his eye does, at least provide a distraction.

  The Borrington Streaker:

  Angry retailers situated within the busy Knarlswood Shopping Centre were left counting the cost after the entire complex was cordoned off by the emergency services following a major incident on Saturday, 14th October. On what should of been one of
the busiest shopping Saturdays of the year at the fifth largest of the covered shopping centres within the Greater London area, the emergency alarm was reputedly activated by the security services at approximately 11am.

  According to an eyewitness report, ten minutes earlier a naked male, covered in gold body paint and wearing a Trojan helmet, had been seen streaking up and down the escalators shouting' Death to all Pawn brokers' before being pursued through the complex by security staff, and who our eyewitness believes to have been two plain clothed detectives. One of the detectives appeared to have almost caught hold of the streaker by a part of his anatomy that we're unable to put into print, but stumbled and lost his grip. The streaker was then seen attempting to escape through a green fire door marked staff only, the persistent detective still in close pursuit. Despite no longer being visible to him, our eyewitness, who has asked not to be named, was then able to follow events by listening in to the security teams radio frequency. Having chased the streaker through the boiler area, a blood curdling scream blared out from the radio network, the detective was then heard to be shrieking for urgent assistance, closely followed by another voice shouting ‘Officer down’. At that point the alarm was activated, and the shopping centre's security team evacuated the now petrified shoppers from the complex before sealing it off. An Armed Response Unit had arrived shortly afterwards, a police helicopter was heard flying overhead and the whole area locked down. At that point, the armed police had cautiously descended into the boiler room area in search of the downed officer. Our witness then described how he had heard the armed officers using less than complimentary language at discovering the detective sat huddled in a corner shaking with fear, pointing towards a large spider web and screaming in terror at the spider crawling across it. For legal reasons, we are unable to print the name of the arachnophobic detective deemed responsible for the incident at the shopping centre. And the senior officer on duty at the scene, DI Jordan, has refused to make any comment. However, James Bluenob, the Head of Security at the complex, despite refusing to divulge the exact cause of the incident is quoted as saying, 'The alarm activation was as a direct result of an emergency occurrence outside of our control. My priority was the safe being of both customers and staff within the complex. I can't speak highly enough of my security team who should be commended for having acted so calmly and professionally in having evacuated the complex in such a safe and controlled manner. All staff followed the correct procedures and we can only apologise for any inconvenience caused.'