---
The hotel’s name was deeply entrenched; it had been named the Agincourt for seventy-five years. And yet, Vicar knew it had to be changed. Hardly anyone could even pronounce it correctly, and even fewer knew what it referred to. Knowledge of the Battle of Agincourt had vanished into the mists of history, and Saint Crispin’s Day had surely been forgotten even before that. It seemed ironic that the process of opening a pub, which was all about continuity and old-fashioned comfort, would involve renaming the building that contained it. By nature, Vicar was reluctant to mess with something so well established in the community, but he realized that the clientele he would be seeking were far, far away — possibly from distant parts of the world. But for the mysterious legend drawing their attention, they would never otherwise make their way to Tyee Lagoon. At any rate, change never went over well here. Half the residents had probably complained when electricity was first introduced.
Vicar would find a good hotel name eventually. But that was a worry for later. Right now, he had to think about the old beer parlour that was going to become their pub.
Without a good solid name, their planning was missing a major component. The name of a pub gave you the theme, the theme gave you the vibe, and the vibe gave you the pleasure. Several weeks of riffing had amounted to nothing so far. Vicar had proposed every imaginable celebrity and historical figure, from Socrates to Kelly Ripa. None had the right ring. Jacquie, meanwhile, was mired in allegorical names that made Vicar wince: Owl and Pussycat, Daphnis and Chloe, Camelot, Lady of the Lake. At one point, Vicar asked, annoyed, “You’ve actually been in a pub, right?”
“Of course. Many times.”
“How in the hell do your suggestions conjure images of … uhh, lusty good humour and the joy of drinking?”
“I thought you wanted a nice name.”
“I definitely do, and none of those are. They’re more like names for shops in Victoria that sell Tarot cards.”
He quickly regretted his crankiness, but his frustration was palpable. They’d been at this for weeks, and some of the paperwork was stalled now, awaiting an official moniker for this grand adventure.
Poutine was getting tired of the constant squabbling, too. “Jesus Christ! Just call it what is: Pub.”
Vicar looked dejectedly at Jacquie, then up at the weather-beaten sign outside that read Liquor. He sadly shook his head.
“It needs a little more élan than that, Ross.”
There was a pause and then all three of them said, in unison, “… Who the hell is Alan?”
---
Vicar wandered Tyee Lagoon’s tiny downtown, circling the old Agincourt and peering in its front windows, staring off at the trees and looking up at the clouds, racking his mind for a pub name that would hit the nail on the head. He kicked pebbles aimlessly, touched random things like light posts and peeling window frames just to feel their texture. He fingered the registration papers stuffed in his pocket. He was acting like a quirky, wandering crackpot and would have made residents a bit uncomfortable, had they not recognized their famous “vicar” and given him a mulligan.
At the little park on the edge of downtown, he sat down on a bench and watched the squirrels scampering around and felt his tires spinning. A lady with a little dog in a stupid cardigan — his elementary school science teacher, in fact — passed him, looking on with some disapproval as he chatted to himself just a little too loudly. She steered over to the edge of the sidewalk and glared.
Realizing that his behaviour was annoying the elderly and possibly freaking out small children, Vicar got up. He was at the end of his patience, anyway. He marched the long road back to Liquor.
When he arrived, he plopped down on a stool at the side counter. Jacquie had already arrived and was waiting there for him. He handed the registration papers to her.
“That’s it. I am totally stumped.” He looked heavenward. “I’m clearly not going to get it. So you do it, Jacquie. Whatever you write down is the name we’re going with.”
She looked at him doubtfully. “Anything I write? No matter what?”
“Well, don’t write something like This Place Sucks. But any reasonable name for a pub I will accept.”
Jacquie grinned mischievously. She chewed the end of the pen for a few moments, thinking through the last few months of chaos and fascinating madness, then she confidently wrote something down. She folded the application form in her hand and said, “There.”
“Just like that, huh?”
“Yup.”
“What does it say?”
“Not tellin’. I’m mailing it in, and you’ll find out in a couple of weeks.”
---
Fifteen days later, a letter arrived in Vicar’s mailbox addressed to
The Vicar’s Knickers Public House
c/o Anthony Vicar
P.O. Box 101
Tyee Lagoon, British Columbia V0R 9P9
And so it began.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Pete McCormack, the funniest polymath on Earth, who has encouraged me for decades and is, among many other high-achieving things, a brilliant author. Also, thank you to Cindy Labonte-Smith, my lost and then found-again elementary-school chum, author, teacher, and aviatrix, who chucked ideas at me like requests at a karaoke bar and advised brilliantly at the earliest stages. Barry Munn, author, translator of eleventeen languages, and retired MD, who unstintingly read, commented, encouraged, and introduced me to the saltiest breakfast in creation, kippers. Patricia Stirling, who read and then reread … and then re-reread, all while lounging on the hood of a car in a parking lot, sipping Vino Verde. Vancouver’s sexiest historian, Aaron Chapman, took innumerable calls from an aimless neophyte and always had a good suggestion and a kind word of encouragement. Scott Steedman set me on the correct path. Duke Thornley pulled and J.J. Martin pushed me through the door. Thanks to Cpl. Tammy Douglas of the RCMP for advice on hostage situations, and Chris Churchill, Esq. for discussions about Canadian law. Jenny McWha oversaw completion and delivery of my splat of alphabet soup. Catharine Chen must have felt she was hand-ironing the bumps out of a highway. Shannon Whibbs, prickly only when provoked, led this giant horse through the hospital of sub edits.
Much love to my Spirit of the West family, living and dead, young and old, every single one of them. They go nameless because they number in the dozens. Darren “Smitty” Smith: thanks for the organ, in case I forgot to mention it before. Ian Bryce — sorry about cocking up your tractor that time. Denis Collins, for correct Irish spellings and pronunciations; Peter Winn, for his secret wine cellar — don’t even bother looking, it’s hidden like the lost city of El Dorado. Mark Vinden possesses the rare good grace to doze off when I flirt with Suzie. Also, a reverential bow to Melanie Martin, Baroness of the Magical Duchies of Dildo and Come By Chance, NFLD. Kevin Herbert Peterson and family — ugh!
Perry, Sam, and Amy, as well as our large extended family, must be strongly advised that any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. I am nearly serious. Ha ha to the fitness app on my phone that has no idea at least one kilometre of my daily “steps” come from wandering to the coffee pot. Speaking of fitness, I thank Kiyomi and Naomi, the “Renal Twins” — they’ll be appearing all week in the lounge… And, most especially, to my long-suffering wife, Merm, who is delighted I’ve gotten this book to press but still doesn’t understand how a man can believe it’s reasonable to spend so much time in pyjamas, gesticulating and mumbling.
RIP: Johnny & Maestro George.
About the Author
PHOTO BY ALEC WATSON
Lifelong musician and member of Vancouver musical group Spirit of the West since dinosaurs roamed the earth, Vince Ditrich began writing on college ruled paper with a Bic pen in the previous century and has never really ceased since. He has written for numerous publications through the years; has his own e-magazine, Random Note Generator; and is currently negotiating a huge financial deal, via email, with a Nigerian prince who need
s help with a wire transfer of $100,000,000.00. Since moving to the west coast from an undisclosed location in the 1980s, Vince has earned almost a dozen gold and platinum albums, enshrinement in various Halls of Fame, and, along with his beloved bandmates, a lovely star in the sidewalk on Vancouver’s Starwalk, which is at this point probably covered in old gum and pee. He lives on Vancouver Island.
TONY VICAR WILL BE
BACK FOR ANOTHER
MILDLY CATASTROPHIC
MISADVENTURE IN
---
THE
VICAR’S
KNICKERS
2022
The Liquor Vicar Page 17
