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Pheasant the Peasant

Just remembered that Hans Segers didn't play for the Dons until later. Keeper at this time was Dave Beasant, so I'm going to make Hammersmith's keeper be Dell Pheasant 'The Peasant'.

I also have to get cracking on the story. Sir Peter has to get bumped off soon or there won't be any point.....

I think it'll be at an Arsenal game. This was in the 'boring, boring Arsenal' heyday.

Moving right along

Well. I've made it to 13500 words with only a week to go. I'll be on an airplane as of Nov 30th so I lose that day too. That means I have 6 days to write 36500 words or 6100 words a day. No problem - hah! OK, this is starting to look unlikely...

But the story is coming along nicely. Big Small has had a gig at a pub and has met a romantic interest - of course she doesn't know that yet since he keeps stepping on his tongue...

No more posts...

...of full text stuff. I don't have time and I am going to just post little snippets. If you want to read the whole thing, email me on owenl1998 at that yahoo dot com place and I'll very very periodically send you more.

Warning, vernacular ahead

[[An aside - for those with more sensitive leanings, there is a lot of swearing coming up. And for those who think I'm overdoing it, I am. I am being MUCH too polite. I knew people in London in 1982 who couldn't go more than four words without swearing - literally. And in EVERYTHING they said. And it wasn't uncommon - and probably still isn't.]]

Outside, the wind had picked up a little. It was whistling through the trees and throwing autumn leaves up in vortices and comet trails. The night had turned almost completely black and dew was already condensing on every surface. The grass was slippery underfoot and the leaves that got trapped in its clutches turned sodden and began the cycle into decay and back to life all over again.

The man at the foot of the garden turned away from the hedge, brushing away leaves as they were flipped into his face or onto his coat. The damned dog. Oh well, there would be another time to settle things with Sir Peter.

In his kennel, Brutus growled quietly and a little triumphantly. The man smelled of tobacco and red wine, of fried potatoes and of wool. He had smelled confident and a little dangerous. But he had slunk away just the same.

.....................................................................................................
Next morning didn’t go well. From start to finish, It wasn’t a surprise that we had hangovers. It wasn’t a surprise that we were nearly broke. It wasn’t a surprise even that we didn’t have many ideas what to do about being evicted. But just about everything else that happened was a surprise and it was all bad.

I woke up to the smell of burning. That wasn’t completely unusual. Every morning that Rob got to the kitchen first was a morning that I woke up to the smell of burning. But this WAS a lot more impressive than usual. I smelled burning bacon and burning toast, but there was something else as well. It turned out to be burning coffee. I hadn’t realised that you could burn instant coffee, but Rob was talented in the kitchen. I still remembered the one time he offered to cook dinner for us. An hour and a half later he served a bright green mush that he claimed only involved rice and meat and that actually tasted like mashed up completely raw peas. There was more of it on the walls and even the ceiling than there was in the pot. We went out to the chippy and he never cooked dinner again.

So I rolled over in bed and yelled “Simon! Are you up?!” No answer, so that didn’t help. I had half hoped he was already running damage control. So I stood up. Another unpleasant mistake. As I stood, it was like a bright red curtain descended at the back of my eyeballs and a crushing migraine thundered into my head.

Now even the burnt coffee seemed enticing. Caffeine always seemed to help with migraines. I edged intot he kitchen. Smoke was pouring from a pan on the stove. Smoke was pouring from a pot on the stove. Smoke was pouring from the toaster. The decision about what to deal with first was made for me. The pan on the stove suddenly erupted into flame. I quickly turned everything on the stove off, dumped a tea towel in the sink, ran water on it and threw it on the flames. A delinquent period when I was a teenager and high school chemistry had both taught me a lot about dealing with fire. Then I grabbed another towel and got it really wet an threw it on the first. Fortunately my memory and ‘training’ worked. The flames went out immediately and the room filled with even more smoke and now steam.

I stopped, then I roared as loud as I had ever shouted in my life, “Rob, Simon, get the fuck in here. Now!”
I heard Simon fall out of the bed in the front room and he stumbled on in, took one glance and said ‘Christ” He then went and dealt with the smoking toaster by upending it over the sink and shaking a rain of charcoal clumps in to the sink. We looked at each other and set to cleaning up without a word. Another of Rob’s charming personality traits was that he was totally useless at cleaning up. About fifteen minutes later when the room was returning to normal and a pot of water was going for tea, Rob breezed in the front door.

“Morning everyone!” He said cheerily, “what’ve you all been up to? I got breakfast!” He waved a bag at us. “Hot crumpets, sausages and coffee from Importers.” It almost made up for the rest of it. Almost.

We continued looking at him. He looked at us. He looked around. Then it hit. “Oh shit! Did I leave some stuff cooking?” “There were actually flames this time, Rob,” I said. “We’ve been cleaning for half an hour.” “oh shit. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

Simon and I sighed together. We knew what we had to do and Rob would hate it but it didn’t matter. Simon took over. “Rob, we can’t let you cook breakfast anymore either. It’s just too much of a mess. In fact, I think if it involves cooking, you are limited to tea.”

“But guys, I wont.” Rob stopped. He knew he would and he knew we knew he would. “I’m sorry.”

We couldn’t stay mad long. That was Rob and if we had been honest with ourselves, we would have known it was coming for a long time.

Simon was in a take charge mood today. “OK, has anyone got any ideas about Sir Grumpety Ass?” Even if I had been able to think straight, I don’t think I would have had any ideas. He had us in a corner and he knew it. If it was someone else, then we could have fought it at the council and maybe won, but nobody was going to cross Sir Peter. It was obvious he was an up and comer with Maggie in power and he was probably going to get in the cabinet or something and nobody wanted to go against him.

There might be some chance with a legal challenge of some kind. As we talked, we remembered that we needed to write a letter. This was something Rob was good at, so he took over.

“Dear Sir Peter blah blah blah, we received your letter dated the - what was the date on it? We have to be completely accurate so that nobody can ever argue with anyone.” We went at it for a while, getting the details right and basically repeating back what Sir Peter’s letter had said. Then we got to the hard part and that was when Simon and I looked at each other and really truly forgave Rob. Because he just looked up and said, “OK, now we just drag our feet about absolutely everything. First I’m going to ask him to confirm that this isn’t a mistake. Then I’m going to ask him to provide details about that other place he mentioned. Then I’m going to ask for another week because we are having trouble finding a mover,”

Simon and I broke in laughing, “we don’t have enough stuff that we need any help at all. We can carry it all ourselves,” I said. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that,’ replied Rob. “And then we ask that he waits on the inspection until after we have moved because it wouldn’t be fair otherwise and because we want to make sure that everything is to his satisfaction.”

Rob paused. “Oh, yeah, then we ask him about arranging for forwarding information to be available for all our phone calls and our deliveries. Because we get a lot of deliveries.” Rob himself was laughing now. It didn’t take long to finish the letter and we all signed it. I found a stamp and we put it aside.

“Right, what’s next,” said Simon. “Off to Legal Aid, “ I replied. “Yeah, but to the pub first. It’s after eleven, I need a morning after beer and besides we need lunch to get ourselves ready for the dusty old stiffs in Legal Aid.” Simon and Rob were a bit reluctant at first but soon got into the idea and we grabbed up jackets, the letter from Sir Peter, a copy of the lease agreement (that took a bit of finding) and the letter we had written. I dropped it in the post box on the corner as we went past. That was the biggest mistake of the day, but I didn’t know that then.

We were starting to feel pretty cheerful. The nasty remarks and jokes about Sir Peter Shrivelled and Tory filth in general were flowing pretty well by the time we got to the pub. Rob was still feeling a bit responsible so he got in the drinks and I spent everything I had left on a ploughman’s. I was feeling good enough to start rhapsodizing again about the ploughman’s lunch and the nobility of the field and the plainness and excellence of a hunk of cheese and a piece of bread and an onion and a glass of beer. Rob and Simon shut me up immediately. I hadn’t realised quite how many times they must have heard that particular lecture from me. Still it was true enough. Sharp cheddar cheese; the sweet and sour bite of a pickled onion, the warm crusty explosion of good bread and the rich, bitter taste of the beer to wash it all down.

By the time our lunch was over, we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. We were young, we were strong, we were going to fight and win. How wrong we were - except about the fight part. That we were going to get plenty of.

None oof us had ever ben to legal aid and we had no idea what to expect. I knew it was on the Richmond High Street since I’d seen it there, but that was it. A small storefront stuffed in between Halfords auto and bicycle store and an old butcher that had been there for years and still displayed pheasants hanging on the walls back behind the counter.

When we walked in the door, there was a small room with about six chairs and a counter. Behind the counter was the grim, grey, dusty, dry person we had imagined. She was about 50 and scared all three of us to death. I summoned up enough courage to ask her what we should do. “Well, you need to make an appointment with one of the solicitors. There’s two people in line in front of you. It’ll be about 40 minutes. What’s your name?” “Big”, I replied without thinking. “Big? Your name is Big? Is that your first name or last name?” She asked, clearly a little shocked.

“Oh sorry,” I replied. “You probably want my real name, right?” She said “yes, of course, what else would I want?” in a rather dry sarcastic tone. “Oliver Small,” I replied. “Oliver Small,” she repeated then she laughed and laughed and laughed. Finally she managed to choke out, “Big Small, Big Small, that’s really what people call you?” I was getting annoyed. “Yeah, so what?” I finally growled. “Oh, nothing, no reason, sorry, sorry,” she choked. “You are rather tall.”

“Well, that’s not why I’m called Big,” I replied grumpily, “but I’m not going to tell YOU the real reason.” I turned away and stomped more noisily than necessary back to my seat. Behind me I could hear the woman starting to laugh again. Simon and Rob were muttering to each other. “And what are YOU two whispering about?” I asked. “Oh, nothing, nothing,” Rob replied, a little too hurriedly.

I t ended up being a whole hour we waited. And every time the old buzzard behind the counter looked at me she burst out laughing again. I know my nickname is a bit strange but it isn’t all that funny and it makes a LOT of sense. Yes, I am tall and it works out that way, but it is really because I’m a poet. One day I’ll be as well known as John Cooper Clark and that’s why I get called Big. You see, some of my mates decided I needed a nickname from rhyming slang and since I’m a poet, they figured out that rhyming slang went with big bang and so my rhyming slang name would be big and since that fit me anyway it became my nickname. Somehow it had all made a lot more sense that night in the pub, but the name had stuck no matter what and I had gotten used to it.

Installment Three

It didn't take long to realize that we had skipped the chip shop in our rush to get straight to the beer. We'd only had three pints each at that point. But we had made a plan. We were going to write a letter back to Sir Puny Gutless and in it we were going to use every delaying tactic we could think of to put off the inevitable. We were also going to Legal Aid first thing tomorrow and see if there was any way we could challenge this and stay in the flat. Just in case, after that, we'd start looking for a new place. And for right now, we'd get to the chippy and back to the pub for the rest of the evening.

I was already feeling pretty surly and much as I loved my brothers in eviction, I didn't really want to se them again. And I was pretty sure they felt the same way. I could tell because after I ordered one of the best comfort meals in history, deep fried cod roe and chips, both Simon and Rob looked at me and said in unison, “Jesus Christ, you're not going to eat that are you. God it stinks.” Which it didn't but whatever. They were both having saveloy and chips, so I said, “well it's better than taking a sausage made of fat and flour, dipping it in batter and deep frying it. Who knows what's in that thing?”

Things went downhill rapidly as Simon chose to take it personally. “Well, you can talk. You're eating fish eggs. You can't get more disgusting than that. Anyway, I thought you were a vegetarian.”

“I am,” I replied, “but I eat fish too.”

Rob rescued us. “Well, see ya. I'm off to drown my sorrows alone, or at least somewhere else if you don't mind.”

“Yeah, me too,” muttered Simon. They slunk off in different directions down Church Street.

I knew when fate wanted me to take a hike, so I did. It was a fine night for it. The sun had set and it was beginning to get dark. Windy and just turning cold, the kind of night when I liked a long walk to think things out. The only better time is one in the morning on a soft warm, mysterious night when you can imagine yourself turning down cobbled alleyways in France or Spain or Italy, looking for that elusive moment of romance and adventure.

But the imagery didn't pan out. When it's windy and cold you want a full moon behind scudding clouds casting pools of light and shadow everywhere and filling the mind with thoughts of magic and sorcery and potential danger. All I saw was crowds of weary commuters heading back from the train station to warm yellow glow of their flats and the blue hypnotic glow from their televisions. It was Thursday night and Blackadder III was on. I resisted the siren call of Rowan Atkinson and bad Elizabethan dialogue and turned toward the Crown and Sceptre. Another pub, another pint. Here I wasn't well known, however. I squeezed in the door, looked at the massed ranks of underage drinkers, turned without stopping and bounced right back into the night.

Fortunately the Green Dragon was only a few doors down. Its elderly, quiet inhabitants might look sideways at me, but they weren't going to stop me enjoying a rare Southern glass of Marston's Pedigree.

By the third pint they had warmed up to me. I overheard that a couple of them were being evicted too and it turned out they lived pretty near me. It wasn't long before we were buying rounds. Nobody was more shocked than me when eleven rolled around and we got turned out on the street with no more time than to get a last quick round in of Stone's Ginger Wine. The fiery warmth from that quickly swallowed slug fueled my unsteady and fragmented stumble home. Tomorrow was going to be extremely unpleasant.

.........................................................................................

The view across Richmond Park was spectacular in the daytime, even at night it was satisfying to see how far away the glow of sodium lights was, how distant other people were, how far he had risen and how far people had to look up to him. And it wasn't over yet. There were many goals to realise. He was waiting for an opportunity to bid for a position in Maggie's cabinet. But not one of the hard, thankless posts like Northern Ireland. No Home Secretary was more like it. Of course there would have to be a few stepping stones along the way. And there was always more to be done in business. And nowadays, business went hand-in-hand with government, just as they should. Running the country took people who were no nonsense, people who knew how to make a success in the real world, in the business world.

“More sherry dear?” Anne interrupted his reverie. As he passed his glass up to her from where he was slumped in the leather armchair by the window, he reflected on the last twenty years together. Anne had been a rock. A boring rock, a straightforward rock, but also a rock that knew how to dress and talk to people. A rock that spoke of solidity and British values, a rock that was an important part of a political arsenal.

And for the wild, exciting parts of life, for the sex, the intimacy, the danger, well there were other avenues. Those South Americans seemed to have good connections.

“Thank you, dear” he said as she returned the glass to him. Harvery's Bristol Cream. Reliable, steady, just what it should be.

“You know, I think I'm getting somewhere with the Hedge Row project, Anne,” he said. “There's some interest and we are a good way toward acquiring all the necessary property. Of course, we've had to evict a few people, but they are mostly young and single and will have no trouble with living space. Nobody really to worry about. Nobody to create bad publicity.”

Anne just hummed, “mmm-hmmm”. She didn't understand, but that didn't matter, even silent she was a great sounding board and she never talked about his business to other people.

He turned his attention back to the view. It was a shame that Richmond Park was a public space with so much history. There was so much prime potential for development in it. A truly upmarket set of inner suburban houses attached to a couple or really high-end golf courses. Something a bit like Virginia Water but closer in to the city and even nicer. Oh well. That was never going to happen, but it was nice to be in a position to imagine it all as his.

And he did in fact own a small piece of it. His garden ran a good 200 feet down to a tall, thick hedge that was the only thing seperating the window where he sat from the public land.

Suddenly, Brutus began to bark. Shatteringly loudly. Sir Peter sat up with a jerk spilling his sherry onto his grey pinstripe trousers. Cursing, he peered out the window. What had gotten Brutus upset? It looked like something was down by the hedge. A dark shadow slipped along the hedge and it suddenly shook violently. Brutus barked again but there was no more movement.

Sir Peter settled back, dabbing pointlessly at the wet spot on his trousers. It was a deer. People thought highly of them, liked to see them still roaming the park, but Sir Peter would happily have allowed hunting them again just to reduce the incursions into his garden.

He sighed and turned to Anne. “I'm sorry dear,” he said. “I was startled when Brutus barked and I spilled some of the sherry. These'll need to be dry cleaned.” He stood and left the room without waiting for a reply. Anne would take care of it. She always did....

Storylines

OK, I've got the ideas for about twenty scenes now. I reckon that I should be able to do 1000 words per scene so I'll eventually get fifty plotted out but for now it is time to return to actual writing.

I've been using a great piece of software called Anthemion Storylines and there is a trial version that limits you to five storylines and fifty cards (scenes) but that'll do me for this project for now. If at the end of the project I think it worked for me I'll buy it. It has some neat extras, too, like character development and location development where it provides a big form to fill out about characters, etc.

Romantic interest at Legal Aide

OK, these guys aren't very attractive, but there needs to be some kind of romantic interest. Maybe the people at legal aide can provide some - even if only one way?

Time to think

(plus go to work)

So I won't be writing new actual novel stuff for a few days. I also have to figure out how to make the access to this somewhat limited.

The Shooting Match continued...

Evan Gale, our other hotshot forward, grabbed the ball and sprinted back to the circle. It was like he knew that the only thing keeping us from that goal was the referee's watch. It didn't take East Richmond long to lose a throw in. But we were already into injury time and there hadn't been much except for when Victor 'Vandal' Rhys had accidentally-on-purpose run over their star midfielder. The refere was looking at his watch.

A quick throw in, the ball was flicked on and Vandal hammered it downfield, a typical airstrike from a team not known for subtlety. Kash got to it first, like always, but the ball just glanced sideways and, suddenly, there was Evan Gale to fire it home from point-blank range. The game was over. We'd come from behind – something we were known for – 'always ugly, always dangerous,' was what the commentators said. Our lads got down to the business of taunting the 'soft,' 'posh' East Richmond supporters. Not very fair since anyone else in the country would have been hard put to tell any difference between the two groups. Although football fans aren't exactly the elite, nobody living in the Tory part of London had any right to complain when you looked at the rest of the country.

Simon and Rob and I just left. We never much liked the aggro and we certainly didn't want a fight. Besides the pub beckoned with its siren song and we only had two hours to get home, have a cup of tea, get some food in us and make it in the door at opening time. And it was at least half a mile back to our flat. Well, technically, my flat. But I was renting out the living room to Simon and Rob spent so much time crashed out in the front room/large closet he might as well have lived there.

..................................................................

The kettle boiled. One of the sweetest sounds in existence is the little click accompanied by the dying sounds of water boiling as the electric kettle clicks off. None of that fancy fake whistling on the hob garbage. An electric kettle gets the job done fast. Simon grabbed our dirty cups from the morning, swirled a little boiling water through them all, tossed in the Green Label and poured on the water. I grabbed mine before he could automatically add sugar. Three teaspoons - yuck! I tipped in some milk from the fridge and passed it around.

There was a moment of reverent silence just before we simultaneously inhaled at least a third of our mugs. “Got any biscuits?” This from Rob who knew that as only a quasi flatmate he had to at least ask, even if he was going to go ahead, root them out from the cupboard and stuff his face anyway. Which is what he did. He made up by buying more than his share of beers and by being willing to help out pretty much anytime with anything.

“Good game that. It was like they knew they just had to wait it out and they could grab ‘em at the end,” Simon said. “Yeah,” I nodded, “just what we needed to stay where we’re headed. Against East Richmond, too. That’s the way to keep ‘em blue.”

Rob and Simon dived back into the game rehashing all the big moments. I was just happy that the day had gone well. I’d had a sense of foreboding all morning and although it had faded while the game was on, it was back, stronger than ever. It already felt like February and the long, dark, depressing days of Winter. I loved the start of football season and I hated it, because by January I was always totally depressed. Dark when I got up, dark by mid afternoon again. Raining and grey all the time and the rich and the politicians squeezing the life out of the land. It wouldn’t have been hard to work up a real grim one, so instead I reached across and grabbed the mail that Rob had dumped on the table on his way in.

There wasn’t much - there never was. I was collecting the dole and tried to supplement it by working little entertainment gigs in pubs. I wanted to be like John Cooper Clark or Linton Kwezi Johnson, a poet of the people. But there’s not much money in it. OK, not any money in it. I was lucky to make a pound a gig in tips and I usually had to beg for the stage time. “I’ll warm the crowd up for the band.” I’d plead. Not many publicans fell for it -- just enough to keep me hopeful. Or just enough to keep me from doing anything with my life, my Mum would have said.

Anyway, dole cheques came Tuesday, not Saturday. So it was a shock that there was something real in the mail. A letter. It took me a moment to recognize the return address. “The Right Honourable Peter Grimshaw, MP, Suite 1000, Richmond Business Park, East Richmond, London SW33 1AA” Shit. Bad news from the landlord. It was never good news. The rent had already gone up twice in two years. Good thing the dole still covered most of it, but it wouldn’t if he kept pushing the rent up. I wondered how much he wanted now as I tore the envelope open.

But the news wasn’t anywhere near as good as the rent going up. I was being evicted. Correction, we all were being evicted.

“Dear Mr. Oliver Small,

I am sorry to inform you that I must ask you to vacate the premises by the 1st of October. This provides you with four weeks notice in accordance with Section 134.g of the Housing Act of 1976. I will have a representative come by to inspect the flat in the last week of September and after the inspection I will return your deposit less any necessary expenses for cleaning and repairs.

If you should need to find alternative housing arrangements, please stop by the new apartment complex being developed on the South River Road with views over the Thames and the most modern of conveniences. You may purchase a modern apartment-style flat for as little as $200,000 and rents with a lease for a minimum of a year start at only $800 per month. Sub letting and flat sharing arrangements will not be permitted since the homeowners association has determined that they want this to be an exclusive dwelling complex.

Yours,

The right honourable Peter Grimshaw.”

My pessimism for the day was more than rewarded. We had three weeks - three fucking weeks. I looked at the postmark. The Right Dishonourable had mailed it September 2nd. Technically exactly four weeks from the 30th. Of course, we hadn’t gotten it until the 4th - pretty quickly actually. We weren’t going to find another place in that time.

“Fuck, that’s just our luck. We’re being evicted. It’s that bastard we elected. We’ve got three weeks then we’re on the streets.” I said. Rob and Simon looked shocked. They grabbed the letter simultaneously and read it together, but Rob took the time to look at me and shake his head. “That sucked. You have to give up this shit. I mean weeks and streets?!”

I knew what he meant but honestly. I’d just been evicted. It’s hard to rhyme spontaneously when you’ve had that kind of shock

I suppose I had better explain. I’m trying to be a poet of the streets and to do that I need to have rhythm. It isn’t really about the rhymes, but they help to focus the rhythm, the pattern of the sound, the drumbeat of language. I needed practice. So I had made a strict rule for myself. All my conversation had to be in rhyme and stick to some kind of meter. So far it wasn’t working all that well, but that was the point. I had to be able to do it spontaneously and extemporaneously. Rob and Simon didn’t agree. They were completely over it. Simon had tried to do it as well when I started just for fun. He had lasted less than a day. He gave up right after I asked the girl in the newsagents for a paper. “A Guardian please, but don’t make me sneeze. And as you can see, here’s twenty pee.”

She just gave me an odd look, but he said he couldn’t stand the idea of taking it that far. “There won’t be a girl anywhere who’ll talk to me ever again if I do that. I’m quitting.” I didn’t point out that he had already quit and that girls not talking to him had nothing to do with speaking in rhyme. I wanted to point it out, but for the sake of domestic harmony in the flat I kept my mouth shut.

I think Rob and Simon wanted to tell me that it made me look stupid too. They certainly spent a little less time with me and sat a little further away in the pub, but I was determined to give it a few months. By then I’d know if I was going to develop a subconscious and automatic sense of the flow of the words as I spoke them. Or not.

Simon and Rob just stood there, looking at the letter. They looked as stunned as I felt. “They can’t do that,” said Simon. “It isn’t legal. They have to have a reason of some kind. We have to not pay or trash the place or something, don’t we?” I was pretty sure he was right but before I could say anything Rob jumped in. “yes they are supposed to have a reason and they also can’t raise the rent more than a certain amount per year. But this is fucking Grimshaw. He can do what he wants. Maggie thinks the sun shines out his arse and the local council will do anything he tells them. About all we can do is go to Legal Aid and see if they can think of anything.”

He was right and what was more, I knew Grimshaw would send in the thugs and have us thrown out if we didn’t move. I’d heard him on the radio and read what he said in the papers. He hated squatters and he hated young, unemployed people and he hated the Labour Party and he hated anyone who wasn’t rich and a Tory. But mostly he hated people who were in his way. And now, somehow, we were in his way. He probably wanted to put up another big set of apartments like that monstrosity by the river that he had the gall to offer us a place in. The most expensive and shoddily built place to live for miles.

It looked like Legal Aid was our only hope. In the meantime we could comb the paper, Time Out, London Week, Loot and pound the streets to find another place. We’d probably have to move and I didn’t want to. I liked East Richmond and I liked being able to walk to the Dancers’ games. (Hammersmith was known as Hammersmith Dancers because of the Hammersmith Palais and when it had been a dance hall instead of the big rock band venue it was now).

I tried to be positive. “With Legal Aid we’ve got it made. They’ll roast his balls with a few phone calls.”

“Yeah, right” snorted Rob. “But that was a little bit better. You’ve got to work on the rhythm though.”

Simon stood up, “Fucking bastard. Let’s go to the fucking chip shop and then to the fucking pub. And while we get fucking drunk we can sort out what to do about the bastard.” The sentiment and the feeling it was expressed with suited us all. We left. And on the way to the pub people got out of our way. I get that a fair amount anyway because I’m tall, but Rob and Simon don’t usually get much respect. But one look at them was enough to make people give us a wide berth -- and it wasn’t our lack of personal hygiene, although that would probably have done it on its own. No it was the look on our faces.

At least the Red Lion was the same as ever. As we walked in, Tony glanced up and started pulling pints. By the time we were down at the end, Rob was passing over three quid and we were picking up three pints of London Pride. Not the best beer in London bit not the worst either. An honest pint, a real pint. A pint that was cool and deep amber with a thin cap of foam and a good balance of bitter and malt. On any other night, a pint to take your troubles away, a pint to end the day and start the night.

We slammed into our regular seats and I drank off a good third of the beer – vary unusual for me. I'm usually one to savor a decent beer, but that's what that Grimshaw had done to me.