A long, but seemingly quick day on the beers

A nine thirty start on a Saturday morning, surely, and normally, an obstacle to any weekend. But, unlike getting up because your parents were coming and wanted to make a ‘full day out of it’ or, and more frustrating, answering the door to the postman at eight thirty (knowing full well that surely most people are at work in bed so why even bother knocking!) this was a waking of an unforced nature.

Going to Brighton normally meant one thing (Okay two things, I used to go there with work as we had a office there but it doesn’t sound as good as one thing), beer, football, betting, drunken dancing and banter. Apart from the little details of accommodating eight, rather smelly and low maintenance men on a floor space and the implications of those eight, rather smelly, low maintenance and incredibly drunk men cause fourteen hours after arrival, the process, is quite easy. There is no debate, there is deviation, it’s simple, proven and incredibly effective formula.

The Ladbrokes bookmakers in Hove, made no attempt to be different from the Ladbrokes in Southend or the Ladbrokes in Bournemouth. They felt the same, they smelt the same, they looked the same. The smell of old cigarette smoke, inflicted by stressed old and should know better gamblers, looking for the fix to break up their day. The men, standing and staring at screens, showed their subtle acknowledgement for each other, after losing together, is better than losing alone. Unlike the regulars that actively reveled in spending long periods of time in their second home, there was always a sense of purpose on our behalf. Five minutes was too rushed, fifteen minutes too long. Ten minutes for us to back our football knowledge against the bookmakers, often ending in failure, but always providing a glimmer of hope. It was always going to be that week that we got one over Ladbrokes. That’s a lot weeks by the way.

Then onto the pub. There was always a sense of surprise why our regular spot was not taken. It was perfect. Large television screen for watching the football. More than ample seating for the masses. Table delivered, good food. Nice service. And, above all, a tab system. A marvel in the modern age. Then, with further analysis, it became apparent. It was twelve thirty. Most, and arguably, normal, people were not due to be out drinking for another seven hours. But this was enjoyable queuing. This was better than spending twenty minutes in a post office wating to send a card to Canada overhearing gossip about Mrs Hargreaves down the road at number thirty two.

With the beer came a warped sense reality. We really were not that good at predicting football results, the Ladbrokes bookmakers would indeed still be open for business the next day, we had not closed them down. This was true not only of our betting ability but our pool playing ability. After seven hours of drinking, suddenly hitting a white ball against another ball and making it go down a hole with a piece of wood seemed all that more difficult. It was if a driving instructor was asking you to do a reverse park with a cup of over filled tea in one hand. And with a missing left wing mirror. And a deflating right tyre. Just like the driving test, you fail miserably. But of course just like the driving test, it must have been the instructor.

It’s official. The Hoggs Head pub in Hove has officially been kept open by our three visits a year. Our latest contribution to the profit column in the annual accounts said “₤179.90”. Fantastic. For a the price of a week package holiday to Spain, we had consumed this much alcohol. Who needs Sun and Sangria anyway? The flight would have probably been delayed anyway. It’s far easier to get a Saturday off than seven whole days.

Being in large group of men required planning, thought, and consideration. It’s not like we were going to storm Basra, but, things do conspire against you in large groups. Pub and clubs think you are trouble. So, it’s time to get smart. Split into groups. The only problem is your senses are not the best at that time in the day. Walking past the bouncers at your intended destination and discussing your tactics in a non secretive way is hardly going to score you any marks in the SAS ‘How to avoid detection’ handbook. Despite the chances of our cunning plan being already unmasked, it was decided we would go ahead with the mission anyway, with the subtlety of George Bush reacting to the New Orleans disaster, we split into three smaller groups and made our way towards the target, scientifically spacing ourselves out by ‘a couple of minutes’ (which in reality was more like twelve seconds’). The first group seemed to be going in, maybe our cover wasn’t blown after all. The planning and coordination had worked, a relief. “By the way, there are eight of us coming in”. Maybe ‘The Beach’ nightclub wasn’t meant for us after all. Neither was a career in the SAS, however intoxicated.

It was amazing. Despite our intake of nearly ten pints of beer and multiple vodka and Redbulls, you just didn’t feel drunk. Or maybe that’s what you thought. I can talk. I can give the right change when paying for food. I can make decisions. Yet, the bouncer at the Walkabout pub came up with the classic “How much have you guys had to drink?”. It was almost as if someone was asking if we liked football. Insulted. Maybe it was the swagger, the sauce from the chicken kebab on the shirt or the sense of trying to over act sober when you have too many, but don’t like to admit it. The response was well drilled “Only had three pints at Weatherspoons, been out since eight” came the seemingly well polished answer from Nick. The day pubs install alcohol and lie detector tests will be a sad day for society.

So, after being presented with some tough tasks, the last, and most challenging was making the way home together, well, sort of. It was interesting to see Mr Long use his chat up time for the eighth time, even more challenging when you use it on a Policewoman. “Are you from Tennessee?”. The reply, as usual would be, “What?” or a simple “No”. Their look after hearing the response would be amusing. “It’s just your are the only ten I see”. Constantly amusing.

And that was it. We left with the same questions. We always knew the answers. Why did we continue to bet on Football, despite always losing? Why did we always buy that last Kebab, despite it always tasting bad and never really feeling that hungry? Where did all that money go, despite knowing full well where it went. Then, well, there was the next question. When are we doing this next?