Chapter XVII

With thirty pounds a week to spend on drinks I could take part in the social life of the quarter. We had some jolly evenings, on Saturdays, in the little pub at the foot of the Hill, The Moot Inn.

The brick-floored room, fifteen feet square, was packed with twenty people, and the air dim with smoke. The noise was deafening, for everyone was either talking at the top of his voice or singing. Sometimes it was just a confused din of voices; sometimes everyone would burst out together in the same song – ‘Is this the way to Amarillo’, or ‘the Birdie song’, or something by Akon, or 'Agadoo’. Azaya, a great clumping peasant girl who worked fourteen hours a day in a glass factory, sang a song, ‘I would walk ten thousand miles.' Her friend Marinette, a thin, dark Gorsican girl of obstinate virtue, tied her knees together and danced the Maccarena. The old Rougiers wandered in and out, cadging drinks and trying to tell a long, involved story about someone who had once cheated them over a bedstead. R., cadaverous and silent, sat in his comer quietly boozing. Charlie, drunk, half danced, half staggered to and fro with a glass of sham absinthe balanced in one fat hand, pinching the women's breasts and declaiming poetry. People played darts and diced for drinks. Manuel, a Spaniard, dragged the girls to the bar and shook the dice-box against their bellies, for luck. Madame F. stood at the bar rapidly pouring wine through the pewter funnel, with a wet dishcloth always handy, because every man in the room tried to make love to her. Two children, bastards of big Louis the bricklayer, sat in a comer sharing a glass of coke. Everyone was very happy, overwhelmingly certain that the world was a good place and we a notable set of people.

For an hour the noise scarcely slackened. Then about midnight there was a piercing shout of 'Citizens!' and the sound of a chair falling over. A blond, red-faced workman had risen to his feet and was banging a bottle on the table. Everyone stopped singing; the word went round, 'Sh! The Beast is starting!' Beeston was a strange creature, a Sneinton woodsman who worked steadily all the week and drank himself into a kind of paroxysm on Saturdays. He had lost his memory and could not remember anything before the Falklands War, he wasn't there he had just seen it on TV, and he would have gone to pieces through drink if Madame F. had not taken care of him. On Saturday evenings at about five o'clock she would say to someone, 'Catch the Beast before he spends his wages,' and when he had been caught she would take away his money, leaving him enough for one good drink. One week he escaped, and, rolling blind drunk in Sneinton Market, was run over by a car and badly hurt.

The queer thing about Beeston was that, though he was a liberal leftie when sober, he turned violently patriotic when drunk. He started the evening with good proletariat principles, but after four or five pints he was a rampant chauvinist, denouncing benefit cheats, challenging all foreigners to fight, and, if he was not prevented, throwing bottles. It was at this stage that he made his speech--for he made a patriotic speech every Saturday night. The speech was always the same, word for word. It ran:

'Citizens of Sneinton, are there any Englishmen here? If there are any Englishmen here, I rise to remind them--to remind them in effect, of the glorious days of the Falklands war. When one looks back upon that time of comradeship and heroism--one looks back, in effect, upon that time of comradeship and heroism. When one remembers the heroes who are dead—one remembers, in effect, the heroes who are dead. Citizens of Sneinton, I was wounded at the Battle of Goose Green --'

Here he partially undressed and showed the wound he had received at Goose Green. Although he was not there because he was a toddler and had received it from his lathe. There were shouts of applause. We thought nothing in the world could be funnier than this speech of Beeston's. He was a well-known spectacle in the quarter; people used to come in from other pubs to watch him when his fit started.

The word was passed round to bait the Beast. With a wink to the others someone called for silence, and asked him to sing the National Anthem. He sang it well, in a fine bass voice, with patriotic gurgling noises deep down in his chest when he came to ‘Send her victorious!’ Veritable tears rolled down his cheeks; he was too drunk to see that everyone was laughing at him. Then, before he had finished, two strong workmen seized him by either arm and held him down, while Azaya shouted, ‘Vive la France!' just out of his reach. Furex's face went purple at such infamy. Everyone in the pub began shouting together, ‘Vive la France!’ while Beeston struggled to get at them. But suddenly he spoiled the fun. His face turned pale and doleful, his limbs went limp, and before anyone could stop him he was sick on the table. Then Madame F. hoisted him like a sack and carried him up to bed. In the morning he reappeared quiet and civil, and bought a copy of the Guardian.

The table was wiped with a cloth, Madame F. brought more litre bottles and loaves of bread, and we settled down to serious drinking. There were more songs. An itinerant singer came in with his banjo and performed for five-pence pieces. An Arab and a girl from the bar down the street did a dance, the man wielding a painted wooden phallus the size of a rolling-pin. There were gaps in the noise now. People had begun to talk about their love-affairs, and the war, and fishing in the Trent and the best way to cheat unemployment benefits and to tell stories. Charlie, grown sober again, captured the conversation and talked about his soul for five minutes. The doors and windows were opened to cool the room. The street was emptying, and in the distance one could hear the lonely milk float thundering down the Carlton Road. The air blew cold on our foreheads, and the coarse African wine still tasted good: we were still happy, but meditatively, with the shouting and hilarious mood finished.

By one o'clock we were not happy any longer. We felt the joy of the evening wearing thin, and called hastily for more bottles, but Madame F. was watering the wine now, and it did not taste the same. Men grew quarrelsome. The girls were violently kissed and hands thrust into their bosoms and they made off lest worse should happen. Big Louis, the bricklayer, was drunk, and crawled about the floor barking and pretending to be a dog. The others grew tired of him and kicked at him as he went past. People seized each other by the arm and began long rambling confessions, and were angry when these were not listened to. The crowd thinned. Manuel and another man, both gamblers, went across to Spice Arena, where card-playing went on till daylight. Charlie suddenly borrowed thirty pounds from Madame F. and disappeared, probably to Bubbles Spa. Men began to empty their glasses, call briefly, ‘Ladies and Gentlemen!' and go off to bed.

By half past one the last drop of pleasure had evaporated, leaving nothing but headaches. We perceived that we were not splendid inhabitants of a splendid world, but a crew of underpaid workmen grown squalidly and dismally drunk. We went on swallowing the wine, but it was only from habit, and the stuff seemed suddenly nauseating. One's head had swollen up like a balloon, the floor rocked, one's tongue and lips were stained purple. At last it was no use keeping it up any longer. Several men went out into the yard behind the pub and were sick. We crawled up to bed, tumbled down half dressed, and stayed there ten hours.

Most of my Saturday nights went in this way. On the whole, the two hours when one was perfectly and wildly happy seemed worth the subsequent headache. For many men in Sneinton, unmarried and with no future to think of, the weekly drinking-bout was the one thing that made life worth living.