May Your Arsehole Fester.

A sudden wind whipped between the surrounding buildings and a loose section of plastic sheeting flapped and undulated like a startled animal waking from a long hibernation as I walked the last few yards to the pub. It was a wild night, storms out at sea battering the Pier Head and making walking difficult, but at least the rain had stopped.

I reached the doorway and ducked gratefully inside. The warm fug of the main bar brought instant relief from the biting chill and a sea of faces turned to acclaim my arrival. These were old mates, good friends from long ago, and I’d looked forward all week to this Friday night get-together.

Two hours later and I was feeling mellow. We’d drifted into a side room by now, just our own group, and the banter was relentless. My face hurt from laughing, I was losing my voice, yet I’d loved every minute. As a few departed on a pilgrimage to the Gents, I had the chance to look around. In the main bar a woman in a business suit stood out. Surrounded by men, and loving the attention by the look of it, she may have been the sole remaining female in an after work drinks session. A much older man was fawning over her, her boss perhaps, and she gave him a playful slap then clamped her shocking-pink lips around the proffered glass, knocking back white wine like a plain wooden fence absorbs creosote.

In the main bar, the décor played homage to the Adams Family and the only barmaid I could see was darting hither and thither as the requests of a sea of punters arrived.

‘Who did her makeup?’ I wondered. ‘Stevie Wonder?’

A stranger wandered into ‘our’ room, gazed around, then sat down at a table in the corner, nursing his pint. I surmised it wasn’t his first of the evening.

The confrontational expression on his face wasn’t attractive and it was a face that needed all the help it could get. The big yellow teeth would have been fine in the mouth of a racehorse, but he didn’t look like a potential Derby winner.

Even worse, he wanted to talk.

There’s always one, isn’t there?

‘Bloody weather,’ he announced, apropos of absolutely nothing, looking directly at me. I nodded, a Pavlovian polite response kicking in despite my inner groan.

‘Got the bloody shits again. Always the same when the weather changes.’

Hmm. This was slightly more problematic. I half-nodded, half turned away, certain by now this was not a conversation I wished to continue.

‘I’ve been up the Royal Liverpool three times last week. Bloody doctors, useless.’

I sipped my beer, tried to ignore him, but to no avail.

‘Never been the same since I got back from the desert.’

Despite my best intentions I looked at him. Deserts are a passion of mine.

‘Oh?’

‘Libya. Ten years I did, running pipelines for that Gadaffi bloke. Good money, but no ale and too bloody hot. I packed it in over a year ago, never been right since.’

Ah, back on the medical issues then. I looked deeply into my glass and pretended to be lost in thought.

‘I got cursed, see, that’s what did it. Egyptian foreman, a right bastard he was. I turned up late once or twice, he bloody cursed me.’

I nodded. ‘Ah,’ I said.

‘Not just a bollocking, I can take that, one of them ancient Egyptian curses it was.’

I couldn’t help it. Despite everything, I had to know.

‘What was it?’

‘Can remember it, word for word. May your arsehole fester and you shit a long black thread.’

I choked on a mouthful of beer.

‘Bastard knew what he was doing. This week’s been shocking. I’m trying out a few jars of ale. Kill or cure, I reckon.’

‘Is it helping?’

He laughed, without a trace of humour. ‘Is it buggery. The contents of my stomach went hours ago. In fact, everything I’ve ever eaten in my life has gone down the pan in the last three days. I’m shitting spinal fluid now.’