| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) 19:11 - Jan 2 with 1229 views | Warkystache |
Considering it was the day before New Year's Eve, the pub wasn't exactly blessed with punters at 12.30pm. Sure, the odd old bloke at the bar, sipping his pint of mild and trying his hand at chatting up the barmaids. A couple in matching cagoules ordering curly chips and asking if they could bring their labradors in (Jamie the landlord suddenly appeared like the fancy dress shop owner in Mr Benn to say they could in the bar but not in the saloon). But that was it.
Terry and I were able to sit in our usual spot, near the flashing fruitie that isn't (it's got about fifty games on it at 50p a pop and you almost need a IT degree to play them) and far enough from the bar for Tel to moan about the walk ("Bleedin' Ian Bofam'd moan abart it"). It was quiet enough for Jamie the landlord to suddenly appear, in a puff of magenta-coloured smoke, to have a chat with us.
"Whatcha bofe doin' for tomorrow night?" he asked. "Nuffing" said Tel. "I aint been out on noo year since the wife and me went to me bruvver-in-laws fer a party in 2010". He took a pull on his pint and surreptitiously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Jamie smiled at the pair of us. "Well, we're doin' a party in 'ere, buffet, disco, all drinkse free if you buy a wristband, open and servin' til one a.m". Here he pulled a flyer out of his pocket and smoothed it on the table in front of us. "We've sold forty tickets already, just aimin' to do the last ten today an' I fought of you two. Tickets are forty quid, but a wristband is a ton, an' fer that.." (here he became a snake oil salesman) "yer get a glass of bubbly when you arrive, drinks free til 1am, the buffet, the disco and I'll even chuck in a few party poppers and hats for the big 12o'clock knees up. He finished breathlessly and waited expectant, like a new father in a maternity ward.
"Wot sort o'drinks" asked Tel, suspiciously. "I aint payin' a ton then geddin' 'ere to find you're serving house spirits and Fosters". Jamie assured him it was any spirit and mixer or a pint of any beer on draught or in bottles. "It don't include bottles of wine or champers or prosecco" he added, hastily. Tel sucked his teeth. "Wass the buffey like? Chicken legs, scotch eggs, a few Iceland sausage rolls, curly cheese sarnies, that sort'a'fing?". "I'm orderin' chinese from the local and Indian, an' we're doing hot pizza an' a salad bar, an' chips, an' roast beef sarnies and a few veggie bits for the veggies" said Jamie, proudly.
We told him we'd think about it. When he'd gone, Tel found a pen in his cargo pants and started writing sums on a beer mat. "Four quid a pint, say we can drink free pints an hour, thass twelve quid an hour times five hours, thass sixty quid. 'Ave a short wiv each pint, thass free quid or nine quid an hour, thass...." Here the mental arithmetic failed him. I pointed out that I'd only ever drunk 15 pints in a night once, when I was a student and a pint in our halls was 50p. I vaguely remembered vomiting on a table and having to be led/carried out by concerned mates who mentioned dialling 999 at stages between me vomiting again and then passing out in it. You could still see my trail home the next morning; like some massive beer-sodden snail, it glittered in the morning sun.
Tel waved this away. "We won't be doin' a rush job to A&E for the stomach pump. When we've 'ad enough beer, we'll stop. We'll start on the shorts then". So we each paid a hundred quid (luckily, he'd paid out on the bets before Christmas so I still had a fair amount of folding on me) and we were given a smile from Jamie and a white wristband with the pub's name printed in black on it.
New Year's Eve arrived. I walked to the pub for eight. Tel got Mrs Tel to drive him down. She'd kindly agreed to pick us up at 1am as well. "No piddling or pukin' in me car" warned Tel as we met. I smiled at this. It sounded like a challenge.
We showed our wristbands to two disinterested looking bouncers on the door. They separated with smiles to let us in. Tel, dressed in black chino's, blue checked YSL shirt and a black waistcoat, looked like Gareth Southgate during last year's world cup. "Least I made an effort!" he expostulated, eyeing my Ben Sherman shirt (untucked) and dark blue jeans and black Sketchers with a critical eye.
We ordered and sank the first pint within three minutes of entering. It was bloody warm in there. The queue at the bar was starting to build and the disco, unmanned and dark in the corner near the bogs, looked vaguely unsettling, like an abandoned vehicle parked outside your house. We eventually got to the bar and ordered more pints; Tel getting two each to save a bit of time. He marvelled at the novelty of not having to part with cash/card when he received them.
We took our time over these; Tel suddenly blurting out "Bleedin'ell, iss quarter ter nine!" as though we were on a timeshare drinkathon. We necked the two pints and then Tel declared we'd have a couple of shorts each "jus' ter leave some room fer the buffey". He ordered two Southern Comforts with ice.
The food came out at nine. True to his word, Jamie unloaded umpteen plastic bags with foil trays and paper bags of poppadoms and prawn crackers onto pub plates. This took him and one of his staff a while, then they shouted that the food was ready and everyone pitched forward like a scrum, forming a vague queue as people at the front picked up plates and then picked at the food on offer. "Tell'em to 'urry up" muttered Tel to me as we stood in line, about fifteenth, waiting for our go.
They replaced the food three times. Then they brought out pizzas and chips and salad stuff and reset the whole thing. People who were first in line for the chinese and Indian went back for more. "Lark pigs at the troff" said Tel, irritably, as we munched our (rapidly cooling) noodles and chicken jalfrezi and rice. Still, he went back for three bits of pizza and chips and a few bits of cucumber. I gave up, surfeited by a whammy of egg foo yung, chow mein, chicken madras and crispy chilli beef, covered with a sort of crispy topping of prawn crackers and poppadoms.
There was a lot of food left over. Jamie went round tables asking if anyone wanted more, like a benevolent Mr Bumble out of Oliver, clearly hoping this would stop people drinking more. Tel went back again. He tried to interest me, but I'd had enough. He came back with chinese topped pizza, the pepperoni vying for space with sweet and sour prawn balls and pork chow mein.
We ordered more drinks. Pints again, me on the Strongbow as the food was quite salty and I fancied a pint of cider. The disco started. The DJ introduced himself, Phil from Mistley. "Everyone alright?" he shouted unnecessarily into the microphone. Then the glitterball in the saloon bar started whirring and he played "1999" by Prince. "'E's ten years too bleedin' late" said Tel.
We danced when he put on 'Kung Fu Fighting' by Carl Douglas, then followed it with 'Boogie Nights' by Heatwave. Tel danced like his crotch was alight, two fingers pointing at all times. He tried a moonwalk during 'Billie Jean'. He looked like he was constantly tripping over a loose tile. I was convinced random folk would come over to ask if he was all right.
It was the prosecco that did me. Jamie forgot to bring it out when everyone arrived so he brought some out at eleven. It's terrible mixed with Southern Comfort by the way. Don't ever feel inclined to try it.
We carried on, me drinking shorts and starting on brandy at 11.30pm, Tel joining me and downing them in one. He had visible sweat patches under each arm. The sight of him dancing to the Macarena and then The Ketchup Song will probably be with me til my dying day. Think '80's dancing. Think Agadoo. Think someone dressed like Gareth Southgate doing it. Think pissed as well. Close, but no cigar. It was his facial expressions that got me. He gurns when he concentrates. It was Disco Uncle Ernie from Tommy.
Suddenly, it was 12. The countdown came on the telly and the disco ceased for us all to count from fifty down to the party poppers and farty squeaks from a plethora of cheap paper horns. We linked arms, drunkenly and sang 'Auld Lang Syne', or the bits of it we knew the words to. Tel embraced me in a man hug and kissed me on the lips. It was like being kissed by a half-cut bit of sandpaper. "'Appy Noo Year!" he cried, pulling me dangerously until I thought we'd be down in a compromising position. We separated and reached for what was left of our brandies. "Need shum more" drooled Tel and he went to the bar for two more. I say 'went'. He actually went for a piss first. After ten minutes, when he hadn't returned, I went looking for him. Well, I say 'went looking for him'. I stood at the bar and ordered another two brandies on ice first, obviously.
I found him in the bogs. He was having a drunken conversation with a bloke who was telling him about new year in London. "Packed it is! Me an' the missus went last year, bloody packed an' all foreigners". Tel nodded dumbly and then saw me. "Brandies" he slurred. Gottem, I replied and led him out to the relative peace of the pub garden for some air and a stiff drink. I had a ciggie. "Ah fink I've 'ad it" said Tel.
We stayed out there until 1am. Then we found Mrs Tel and she drove us home. I wasn't sick. I didn't piddle in their car. But christ did my head and guts hurt yesterday? I woke at 10.30am with my tongue cloven to the roof of my mouth and a lake of drool making my pillow look like a wet wipe. Even coffee didn't help much. I watched the game at 2.45pm in my dressing gown, mainlining tea from the big pot and resisting the temptation to chuck a drop of brandy in it.
Away working on Monday. No game for a while. The poor little Warky weakly raises a smile. The birds on their table wait ages for grub. As poor little Warky came in late from the pub.
Happy New Year one and all. See you after Accrington......... |  |
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| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) on 22:01 - Jan 2 with 1069 views | witchdoctor |
top notch as per...HNY Warky..😊👠|  | | |
| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) on 23:29 - Jan 2 with 1019 views | BanksterDebtSlave |
Excellent stuff Warky....happy New Year to you too. |  |
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| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) on 08:25 - Jan 3 with 878 views | MillsyVOR |
Engrossing, Warky (hope to see these complied in a book one day)! |  | | |
| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) on 12:40 - Jan 3 with 789 views | The_Romford_Blue |
‘ We danced when he put on 'Kung Fu Fighting' by Carl Douglas, then followed it with 'Boogie Nights' by Heatwave. Tel danced like his crotch was alight, two fingers pointing at all times. He tried a moonwalk during 'Billie Jean'. He looked like he was constantly tripping over a loose tile. I was convinced random folk would come over to ask if he was all right.
It was the prosecco that did me. Jamie forgot to bring it out when everyone arrived so he brought some out at eleven. It's terrible mixed with Southern Comfort by the way. Don't ever feel inclined to try it.
We carried on, me drinking shorts and starting on brandy at 11.30pm, Tel joining me and downing them in one. He had visible sweat patches under each arm. The sight of him dancing to the Macarena and then The Ketchup Song will probably be with me til my dying day. Think '80's dancing. Think Agadoo. Think someone dressed like Gareth Southgate doing it. Think pissed as well. Close, but no cigar. It was his facial expressions that got me. He gurns when he concentrates. It was Disco Uncle Ernie from Tommy. ’
Superb Warky! Happy new year to you and Tel |  |
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| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) on 12:54 - Jan 3 with 776 views | brogansnose |
Classic Warky. |  | | |
| The first 2020 Happy New Year Warky League One Report: Wycombe (a) on 22:12 - Jan 3 with 641 views | woodbridge_blue |
Happy New Year Warky, hope you've recovered!! |  | | |
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