LazySquirrel

Written whilst waiting for Geir to turn up to see Howe Gelb, or was it Robyn Hitchcock? At the Union Chapel in Islington. One of my favourite venues in London. I did walk out of a Residents show I went to there, but then, everything had been going wrong that week and being shouted at by a mad man in a cow costume wasn't helping my mood.

The Compton Arms is a small pub off of a small side road in Islington. It’s been there a long time and by it’s very nature of being in a small side road, time has left it alone. I walked in there on Tuesday evening to wait for a friend to turn up. The nature of an old pub means that a lot of dead ex-drinkers like to still go there, particularly if there is nothing too vulgar or modern. The Compton Arms is this type of pub. On walking in, the small bar is occupied by a handful of locals who have been clearly drinking for most of the day. The dead prefer the slightly quieter tables to the side of the bar. On one of these tables sits the ghost of George Orwell quietly nursing a pint of brown ale whilst watching the living at the bar. To the table opposite him is the Earl of Compton, clearly worse for wear and smelling of the river Thames. He has duckweed in his hair and fronds of pondweed draped across the epaulettes of a once smart frock coat. George Orwell idly picks at a pack of ready salted peanuts.

I order a pint of Bonkers Conkers. The bar lady asks me about me choice.

• Bonkers Conkers? Have you had it before? • Yes, but I can’t remember when.

Man at the bar asks me:

• What does it taste off? • I suppose, slightly like Conkers. Have you ever licked a conker? That slightly metallic autumnal taste? • Sounds delicious.

At the living end of the bar a tired married couple in their fifties are clearly ruined. They have been drinking for England for the whole day. She clutches a half drained glass of white wine. He is wearing a brown trilby and sports a neatly trimmed moustache. They are accompanied by a lady clutching a small sleeping dog and a large man with a shaved head and tattoos.

Tattooed man turns to his audience.

• I read it in the paper today. They have a tablet they are proposing for the working man to curb drinking. They say it will be prescribed for anyone who drinks over three pints a day.

Brown Trilby replies:

• Three pints? I know how many pints I’ve had by counting my change at the end of the evening. I know I get a twenty pence piece change for every round.

He reaches into his blazer pocket.

• Hmm.. Nine pints. Time to go home I think.

The bar lady nods in agreement.

• Just mind the bloody stair carpet this time.

I join George Orwell at his table and watch on. George isn’t saying much. The Earl of Compton is saying even less. Thames mud is grained deep into his forehead and his shoulders are sloped forward. George Orwell eats another peanut slowly.

The lady with the sleeping dog hears a tune from the speakers above their table. It is not intrusive but there if you listen. Too loud and the ghosts would not stick around.

• Oh I like this one. It’s a soul singer? What’s his name?

Brown Trilby briefly wakes from his alcohol slumber?

• Soul? • How do you turn a duck into a soul singer? • You stick him in an oven until he’s Bill Withers…

His wife makes a decisive move. Time to go. They slowly stagger off to the door and leave.

I ask for a refill of my Bonkers Conkers. It’s tasty and refreshing. I make a hand motion of a tipping glass to George Orwell. He nods quietly and I bring a pint back to the table for him too.

Five minutes pass and the music changes again. It’s someone imploring us to do the Hippy Hippy Shake. Neither George Orwell or The Earl of Compton appear to be much in the mood for The Hippy Shake. In fact, the Earl of Compton looks positively ruined. His clothes emit a haze of foul Thames water.

The pub door opens. It is the man with the brown Trilby hat. He sits down next to the Earl of Compton. George Orwell smiles at him and raises his pint in his right hand.

• Stair Carpet.

Says the man in the brown trilby.

George Orwell carefully takes a peanut out from the packet. He skilfully takes aim with a curled index finger and thumb and propels the peanut in to the Earl of Compton’s pint. It sinks slowly in a cloud of bubbles.