Pool Journeys - Chapter 1 - Misery Man

Pool Journeys is a book that I started writing a while back, which I am only just now getting round to finishing, in fact it is Steemit.com that has motivated me to complete the book. So in recognition of that, I am going to publish the first few chapters on Steemit.

The inspiration behind Pool Journeys

For as long as I’ve been going to pubs there have been pool tables within them; even before I reached the legal drinking age I would go upstairs to a pub on my estate and play pool with the rest of my underage friends.

When there were too many of us to play individual games of pool, we would play killer; a pool based game that any amount of people can play. Back then it seemed like the pool table was the social focal point in many a pub. Throughout my adolescent years and later on in adulthood I continued to play pool, I played at my local youth centre; I played in my local pubs. If I went to a new pub with friends it would have to have a pool table, but in twenty first century Britain or London at least, the pool table now inhabits a certain type of pub.

From my experience the type of pub can be split into three categories;

Fight Pub: This type of pub can often be found in areas such as Kilburn, Hackney and most of South London; and as the name suggests, it is the kind of establishment you goto when looking to brush up on your pugilistic skills. The atmosphere in Fight Pubs is thick with the threat of violence or at the very least an incredibly, unwanted situation.

Lonely Old Man Pub: Again this speaks for itself; in pubs like these one will find that the patrons in these establishments will mainly be lonely old men. Invariably there will be between one and six lonely old men in the Lonely Old Man Pub and they will sit together in groups of one.

Jekyll & Hyde Pub: On any given day this kind of pub can either be a Lonely Old Man Pub or a Fight Pub, they can even be both at the same time, this is whereby you can depress yourself and get hospitalised on the same night.

My mission will be to seek out these pubs (at times risking life and limb) and play pool in them, taking a humorous look at the establishment, its customers and of course the pool players.

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Chapter 1 - ONE MISERY MAN & HIS PUB

Harrow Road; one of the longest roads in London; apparently built to allow the well-heeled alumni of Harrow School, easy access to the centre of London. The road snakes its way across West and Northwest London for over ten miles, connecting London to Harrow-On-The-Hill.

The traveler along Harrow Road will experience many different types of scenery, be it the suburban terraced houses of Middlesex or the imposing high rises; colourful shops and crack dens of Stonebridge Park.

But one thing always stays the same about Harrow Road and that is the road itself, no matter where you are on it, it is big and wide there isn’t one part of it that can not be considered a main road and that gives it a certain type of starkness.

I’m currently walking along the part that borders Maida Vale and Notting Hill; if there was such a prize then this stretch would be a serious contender for seediest section. I’m picking my way through discarded beer cans that have been fashioned into crack pipes, used condoms dropped by the ever increasing numbers of ladies of the night and bloody syringes.

My walk is an unenthusiastic trudge that depresses me with each step, the reason, is that two (supposedly) good friends have persuaded me to go to a drinking establishment I hate with a passion and the self loathing I’m going through is getting almost too much to bear.

I know I’m going to have a bad time yet I’m still going through with it; is this part of a subconscious sadomasochistic urge?

Going to a pub shouldn’t be about this, it shouldn’t be a time to question and contemplate your life and where it’s going. Rather, it should be a time to forget all that and have a drink and a game of pool with friends.

I protested of course when The Fox (that’s my first friend the name was given to him by an ex girlfriend I believe and has stuck ever since) suggested that we go to ‘The Filth Bucket’, I moaned and groaned and shouted –

“Why can’t we go to the Chips & Ham?”

“The Chippenham’s closed down for refurbishments.” The Ox informed me (Ox is neither his real or nickname, but if you ever met him you’d understand why I call him that).

“There must be somewhere else, mustn’t there?”

I was looking at them with the imploring look of an impoverished child asking its mother if this would be the year that daddy finally came home for Christmas. I could tell this because they were wearing stupid grins on their faces as they spoke in mock gentle tones.

“There’s always Mad Irish Pub on the corner; that’s got a table.”

Ox informed me of this with the sarcastic cheerfulness of a customer services representative in Delhi telling you that there’s absolutely nothing he can do to alleviate your problem.

I let out a sigh of resignation, it was clear that if I wanted a game of pool without risking my life at the same time, I was going to have to go to The Filth Bucket; I had never even bothered to learn its real name and I often wished I had never bothered to set foot in there.

The place is one of the worst pubs I’ve ever been to, and is a classic example of the Lonely Old Man Pub; it’s not the total lack of atmosphere or female customers. It’s not even that the beer tastes as if it’s been strained through the undergarment of a derelict construction worker. Or even the beer stained, smelly carpet, the lack of any modern décor or the collection of moribund male customers.

It is all these things topped off with an extremely unfriendly, sour-faced, unhygienic landlord; you know the type? The sort who even though he has absolutely no customers will still take at least five minutes before he comes over and serves you.

He’s the type of landlord, who looks at you like you’re ruining his evening by coming in and spending your money in his desperate establishment, even though he clearly needs the custom to keep the business and his no doubt massive alcohol addiction going.

Yet he behaves as if he wants you dead, I call him; ‘Misery Man’ and the only reason I’m subjecting myself to the ungrateful charms of this particular publican is it’s the only pub in a couple of square miles where you can go and play pool without fear of being knifed. There are two tables both adequately laid and straight, the pool cues aren’t bad and chances are the one you end up with will be fairly straight and due to the general lack of customer service in the Filth Bucket, you can almost always walk straight in and onto a table.

On this particular night, we walk in and as usual the place is empty, save for the usual “collection” of the landlord’s “friends”. At the bar there’s an old man leering at the bored Polish barmaid, I haven’t seen her before but her face is clearly easy to read. It says;

“Why the hell did I leave Poland to come to this shit hole? It must get better than this mustn’t it? If that fat, ugly, smelly old man stares at my tits any harder I think I’m going to be physically sick, I’ll spew forth streams of projectile vomit until the entire place is covered with the contents of my stomach and I no longer have to look at this desperate gathering of troglodytes; oh look maybe these customers will be able to help me escape this weird nightmare.”

You may wonder how I can read so much into someone’s expression after knowing them for less than ten seconds. But I could actually see the palpable disappointment on her face when I asked for two pints of Guinness and one of Stella, instead of asking her;

“Would you like to come and work for me in my fabulous new, shiny, Western working environment, where younger, fitter and much less repulsive men will stare at your tits?”

The Game

With the cue deposit paid for and my friends already at the tables I walk over with our pints, it’s their game first, so I content myself with watching the big screen on the wall behind the tables. Or rather I’m forced to take notice as the volume has been cranked up to a decibel level just under that of a supersonic jet at take off. it’s a Wednesday night and the channel is on Sky Sports News and the commentator is talking about a lower division football match.

As riveting as this was I tore away my gaze and cast my eye around the rest of the pub and not for the first time, wondered just how this sham of a place managed to stay open. Misery Man sat on a high pub stool by the bar talking to one of his ever dwindling regular customers, he spoke in monosyllabic hushed tones his bushy eyebrows quivering as he scowled at us.

I noticed that his nose was even redder and more pockmarked, than the last time I saw him, giving him a slightly comical appearance as the contrasting pallid tones of the rest of his face, made him look like a sad, alcoholic clown.

I quietly noted that this was the one and only comical thing about Misery Man; I concluded that you wouldn't hire him as a clown, because he was the type of man who could make children cry merely by entering the same room as them.

The rest of the place was made up of the usual disjointed crew that drank in the Filth Bucket there was; the Breast Whisperer, sat at the opposite end of the bar, he wore a cloth cap and a shabby suit. The suit looked like he worked in it; only on a building site instead of an office.

The way he perched half on, half off of his stool made it appear as if the bar played an integral part in keeping him from falling flat on his face, he was drinking half pints no doubt to make sure he had a regular reason to call the barmaid over. A small thin trail of dribble had made its way out of a small opening in his grinning mouth and down his chin creating a slightly captivating, slightly disturbing mini waterfall effect.

His alcohol glazed eyes stayed intently fixed on the barmaids breasts, as if his very life depended on not taking his eyes of her chest not even for a split second. Maybe I mused he was like a horse whisperer and was indeed attempting some kind of empathetic communication with the barmaid’s chest. His stare was not deterred by the fact that she had not only crossed her arms across her ample bosom, but was staring back at him with a look of open disgust etched plainly on her face.

A couple that looked as if they’d spent the night sleeping under a nearby bridge, were sat in the recessed tables by the far window. They sat with their drinks on the table in front of them both staring out into space not saying a word to each other; they drank in almost complete synchronisation picking up their glasses and sipping at the same time as each other. They gave the illusion of some kind of abstract telepathic communication, whereby the lifting and sipping of their drinks was a language that only they could decode.

A couple more old men sat at a table not far from Tramp Couple, who looked like friends because they sat next to each other in an otherwise empty pub, but as in the same instance as Tramp Couple both sat in stony silence.

Observing this rag tag collection of desperate people always has a powerful effect on me, I tend to find myself locked in an internal debate as to which form of suicide would be best to carry out should I want to end it all and ensure that I never end up like any of these people. I’ll sit wondering what the chances of hitting someone should I jump from the tower block just outside or whether if I jumped in front of a train I would forever psychologically damage the train driver. When you find yourself sitting in a pub wondering how high you’d bounce after hitting the ground from a twenty storey fall, it’s probably time to leave that place and never return.

After a few more pints and games, I had convinced myself that the grateful; thanks-for giving-me-something-to-do look; that the barmaid gave me every time I went over to get more drinks. Was in fact a; I’m-in-complete-turmoil-over-whether-or-not-you’ll-declare your-utter-and-undying-love-for-me look. Even the; I-want-you-dead-preferably-by my-hand looks; the landlord kept shooting our way had melted into my general alcoholic reverie and I didn’t seem to mind the place so much.

One of the benefits of going to the Filth Bucket, is that because most of the people in the pub were known to Misery Man, the red nosed publican; he would often turn the evening into a lock-in and you can play pool to your heart’s content.

Although, after this particular evening I decided that that wasn’t true and in fact our red nosed friend simply had a communication problem. I came to this conclusion by way of the fact that when it was time to leave the landlord simply started to turn up the volume of the TV and the jukebox at the same time. It took a while to notice but all of a sudden there was an unbearable cacophony of sound assaulting my eardrums.

When I rushed over to the bar and asked the poor Polish barmaid if she wouldn’t mind turning it down, she looked at me like she wanted to cry and pointed at the landlord in an ‘ask him’ gesture. I did ask him and till this day the answer still astounds me;

“He wants to listen to the jukebox.” He answered pointing at the Breast Whisperer, his only other customer by now,

“And I want to watch the telly, so I’m just trying to please everyone.”

The fact that the sound of the TV and jukebox combined at full volume sounded like an argument between a large group of schoolchildren a pack of wild dogs and a knife wielding maniac didn’t seem to bother him or the Breast Whisperer, who swayed gently on his seat seemingly in some kind of breast induced trance.

Let alone the fact that he; the owner, made up fifty percent of the ‘everyone’ he talked of; I surmised that he actually wanted us to leave but asking us was too complex for such an emotional miscreant. I announced loudly to my friends that it was time to leave, we spilled out onto the pavement, my ears throbbing my anger piqued.

“Why the hell didn’t he just ask us to leave if he wanted us to leave?” I yelled; my friends just fell about laughing at me as I moaned and griped for about ten minutes, I was sure he’d done permanent damage to my hearing.

The question is of course, is it still possible to get a simple game of pool in a fairly normal pub or do I have to associate with weirdos and nutters in order to relax with a pint or two and a game?

I’m beginning to think not, but only time and a lot more alcohol will tell.

Epilogue

OK, there we go, that's it! Let me know in the comments if you want to read chapter two; The Kilburn Samurai

Till Next Time

CryptoGee