It would appear that the weather men had been right the night before. It really was going to be the hottest day of the year so far. Even at this early hour, a light blue hazy mist rose over the fields and hedges of the surrounding districts as the first really hot rays of the sun started to get to work. The gently rolling hills and dipping valleys of the Somerset/Wiltshire border looked as inviting as ever. Nestling in a small valley just by the A303 lay the drowsy buildings and streets of Hulke. It was a small, non-descript town that showed signs of its heyday having long since passed. This was complete crap as it had never had a heyday in the first place. It had always just been “that place”. No railway had ever been there, no major battles of the English Civil War had ever raged near it. Hitler hadn’t even bombed it. No one had told him about it, so why should he?
Hulke has one major tourist attraction. Alright, I exaggerate. Hulke has A tourist attraction. In the middle of the town is an attractive and relatively large green. Its lawns undulate and are liberally covered with leafy trees that offer tranquil corners for lovers and tramps alike. In the middle of all this charming greenery lie the stark ruins of Hulke Priory. This was a small religious house that had never really been a major site, but had still been torn to pieces and left to rot by Henry the VIIIth and his asset stripping operation. Now the crumbling walls were slowly decaying in the elements, but still attracting the occasional visitor who would shuffle round, reading the information boards erected by the town council and taking photos to bore friends with later. It still made for a nice vista from the shops and pubs that lined one side of the High Road.
Some three roads back from Hulke’s main drag was Holmes Street. This was another largely anonymous red brick Victorian terrace of apparently cloned houses. They marched up the shallow hill in a regimented line of conformity. Here and there, owners had attempted to stamp their own identity and individualism on the outside by painting a gutter a garish pink, or by affixing large and hideous plastic butterflies on the brickwork. Some others had just decided to ignore all boundaries of taste and good sense and had plumped for the leprosy of home improvement – stone cladding. Number 63 was a little different from the rest, but you had to get up close to notice it. Around the front door, with its pretty and original stained glass panel, there were one or two messages. Things like a “Glastonbury 98” see-through badge, or a deeply faded “Dig Deep for the Miners” sticker, that sat proclaiming the house owners taste – and peeled slowly.
Upstairs in the main bedroom, a single figure lay sprawled across the scrambled bed clothes of the double bed. It was a male figure, aged about 35, thick set and with a mass of straggly brown hair that was thinning slightly at the front. He lay face down on the bed in just a pair of boxer shorts, a tiny sheen of perspiration in the small of his back. Somewhere in the street outside he could hear a milk float whining up the hill. His eye lids slowly parted and he focussed on the mobile phone by his bed, used as it always was by him as a clock and alarm just as often as a means of communication. The time said 07:34. For one moment he thought it was time to get up, head to the office, but then it came back to him. It was Saturday. A day off. The thumping hangover confirmed that it definitely was Saturday. The figure rolled on to his back and tried to ignore the headache, but on the pain Richter scale this one was heading towards double figures. He struggled into a semi seated position, farted thunderously and then pondered on the possibility of being upright. It sounded far too adventurous and he slumped back into the pillows. This was Neil Hinchcliffe, known to all his friends, and the occasional enemy, as “Drood”. A bizarre nickname, that was for sure and one whose explanation was now lost in the mists of time and would probably never be recovered. Not unless someone invented a time machine and what was the likelihood of that ever happening? He had been known as Drood since his years at secondary school and it had stuck, and to be quite honest he liked it. Summoning up super human reserves of energy and resolve he levered himself into a seating position and then, even more impressively, swung his legs out over the edge of the bed and let them dangle down to the floor. Hot. Headache. Desperate for a wee and a poo. Mouth like a piece of sandpaper. All of these sensations were analysed by his brain and filed away in order of importance, to be dealt with as they became critical. Toilet first seemed like a good starting point – obviously after an evacuation of his bowels and the resulting odour, this would necessitate the opening of a window somewhere which would alleviate some of the over heating problems. A glass of water and two paracetamol would equally cure the sandpaper and headache scenario. See! Life could be made simple!
It had been a spectacularly bad night at the pub the previous evening. “The Flag of Nations” was another simple Victorian building with two bars and a miniscule snug. Its front windows were of a pleasant stained glass, while inside the flag motif was played to the extreme with various pennants draped over most available surfaces. Dark wood and horse brasses completed the picture. Drood had been a regular there for the past 4 years and things still weren’t improving. This particular Friday evening, two of the local lasses were in there – Claire and Tara. Both of them quite nice, but Drood was particularly fond of Claire with her dark hair and big sensuous eyes. But then he wouldn’t have kicked Tara out of bed either and he had been single for far too long and was determined to impress these ladies. But it didn’t go according to plan. He had sat with them in the snug and felt happily in control of the situation and even started flirting with both of them. They even admitted that they were both very single and were on the look out for a man in their lives. Drood’s heart had leapt at this admission. He was poised to move in for the kill when Claire delivered her knockout blow on his undefended emotional chin.
“Drood” she had begun, gently rolling the “R” and leaning forward so that he could get a better look at her cleavage. “Both Tara and I are single and in need of good men, and we wanted to ask you something…” Drood, as calmly as he could manage replaced his pint on the table, but inside butterflies were going ape-shit and his breath shuddered slightly. Was she really going to say next what he thought, hoped and prayed she was going to say? Something along the lines of “can we come back to your house and give an impromptu display of lingerie wearing and Sapphic tendencies for your delectation?” Did she bollocks…
“What we wanted to ask you was, do you know any nice single men you could introduce us to?” His heart slapped onto the floor, flapped around pathetically for a second or two and then expired. He tried to regain some composure and raised an eyebrow quizzically in a way that he hoped would be attractive.
“Well, there is one name that springs to mind…” He growled in what was a passable imitation of a sexy voice. Tara sat forward excitedly and Claire’s big brown eyes twinkled.
“Oh, do tell!” said Tara. Drood licked his lips slowly, ready to deliver his trump card.
“Me” he announced, proudly. Silence descended on the snug.
“You?” said Claire and looked in bewilderment at Tara. Drood’s confidence evaporated.
“Err… yes, me” he repeated, only this time in a timid rather pathetic little voice. Claire reached over and stroked his arm gently.
“Oh you sweetie, always trying to cheer us up with a joke. You are just like a brother to us, totally safe and trustworthy! That’s why we love you!” She finally emotionally murdered him by giving him a chaste, innocent peck on the cheek and stood up and headed for the bar. Tara remained briefly. She looked hard at Drood.
“You fancy her don’t you?” she said sharply. Drood nodded dumbly and smiled apologetically at her.
“Dreadful isn’t it?” He ventured in a joking way. Tara stood up and picked up her drink.
“Yeah” she breathed. “You know you don’t stand a chance, don’t you? Claire’s completely out of your league.” She added. Another emotional boot in the bollocks. She drained her glass and went off to join Claire. Drood sat for a second in silence. He had already drunk too much and was getting towards “emotional” in more ways than one. But he would be OK; he would settle his emotions and go out into the bar again. He just needed a couple of seconds to calm him down and get everything under control again. Just at that second, some complete knob-end put on “Hurt” by Johnny Cash on the juke box and Drood dissolved into a mass of snot and tears. Heaving shoulders and gasping breaths. He would have to do what a man had to do. He was going to have to get very, very drunk and make some completely futile gesture of love and admiration.
Downstairs in his kitchen the following morning Drood poured water into his kettle for a cup of tea. His mind recovered what he had finally done at the pub last night. He groaned with embarrassment. Seven pints of Summer Lightning and a couple of whiskies were probably not the best way to begin a romantic plan, but the purchasing of large amounts of crab sticks and winkles from the woman who came round with the shell fish tray and then attempting to give them all to Claire and Tara as a token of good will and unbridled lust was definitely a no-no. The added ingredient sure to make this whole scenario collapse was the fact that Claire and Tara were by this time completely surrounded by the Hulke Barbarians Rugby club and enjoying their attentions as they were all obviously completely unlike brothers to them. Drood had completed his utter embarrassment by throwing a winkle at the Rugby Club captain, had just missed having his head taken off his shoulders by the said captain and had been rescued by his best mate Bryan Camfield who had helped him stagger home, pausing only to throw up in a litter bin. As he poured the boiling water from the kettle into a mug for some tea this following morning, he could only console himself with the idea that one day he would look back on all this and laugh. Probably sometime during the next ice age.
Hulke has one major tourist attraction. Alright, I exaggerate. Hulke has A tourist attraction. In the middle of the town is an attractive and relatively large green. Its lawns undulate and are liberally covered with leafy trees that offer tranquil corners for lovers and tramps alike. In the middle of all this charming greenery lie the stark ruins of Hulke Priory. This was a small religious house that had never really been a major site, but had still been torn to pieces and left to rot by Henry the VIIIth and his asset stripping operation. Now the crumbling walls were slowly decaying in the elements, but still attracting the occasional visitor who would shuffle round, reading the information boards erected by the town council and taking photos to bore friends with later. It still made for a nice vista from the shops and pubs that lined one side of the High Road.
Some three roads back from Hulke’s main drag was Holmes Street. This was another largely anonymous red brick Victorian terrace of apparently cloned houses. They marched up the shallow hill in a regimented line of conformity. Here and there, owners had attempted to stamp their own identity and individualism on the outside by painting a gutter a garish pink, or by affixing large and hideous plastic butterflies on the brickwork. Some others had just decided to ignore all boundaries of taste and good sense and had plumped for the leprosy of home improvement – stone cladding. Number 63 was a little different from the rest, but you had to get up close to notice it. Around the front door, with its pretty and original stained glass panel, there were one or two messages. Things like a “Glastonbury 98” see-through badge, or a deeply faded “Dig Deep for the Miners” sticker, that sat proclaiming the house owners taste – and peeled slowly.
Upstairs in the main bedroom, a single figure lay sprawled across the scrambled bed clothes of the double bed. It was a male figure, aged about 35, thick set and with a mass of straggly brown hair that was thinning slightly at the front. He lay face down on the bed in just a pair of boxer shorts, a tiny sheen of perspiration in the small of his back. Somewhere in the street outside he could hear a milk float whining up the hill. His eye lids slowly parted and he focussed on the mobile phone by his bed, used as it always was by him as a clock and alarm just as often as a means of communication. The time said 07:34. For one moment he thought it was time to get up, head to the office, but then it came back to him. It was Saturday. A day off. The thumping hangover confirmed that it definitely was Saturday. The figure rolled on to his back and tried to ignore the headache, but on the pain Richter scale this one was heading towards double figures. He struggled into a semi seated position, farted thunderously and then pondered on the possibility of being upright. It sounded far too adventurous and he slumped back into the pillows. This was Neil Hinchcliffe, known to all his friends, and the occasional enemy, as “Drood”. A bizarre nickname, that was for sure and one whose explanation was now lost in the mists of time and would probably never be recovered. Not unless someone invented a time machine and what was the likelihood of that ever happening? He had been known as Drood since his years at secondary school and it had stuck, and to be quite honest he liked it. Summoning up super human reserves of energy and resolve he levered himself into a seating position and then, even more impressively, swung his legs out over the edge of the bed and let them dangle down to the floor. Hot. Headache. Desperate for a wee and a poo. Mouth like a piece of sandpaper. All of these sensations were analysed by his brain and filed away in order of importance, to be dealt with as they became critical. Toilet first seemed like a good starting point – obviously after an evacuation of his bowels and the resulting odour, this would necessitate the opening of a window somewhere which would alleviate some of the over heating problems. A glass of water and two paracetamol would equally cure the sandpaper and headache scenario. See! Life could be made simple!
It had been a spectacularly bad night at the pub the previous evening. “The Flag of Nations” was another simple Victorian building with two bars and a miniscule snug. Its front windows were of a pleasant stained glass, while inside the flag motif was played to the extreme with various pennants draped over most available surfaces. Dark wood and horse brasses completed the picture. Drood had been a regular there for the past 4 years and things still weren’t improving. This particular Friday evening, two of the local lasses were in there – Claire and Tara. Both of them quite nice, but Drood was particularly fond of Claire with her dark hair and big sensuous eyes. But then he wouldn’t have kicked Tara out of bed either and he had been single for far too long and was determined to impress these ladies. But it didn’t go according to plan. He had sat with them in the snug and felt happily in control of the situation and even started flirting with both of them. They even admitted that they were both very single and were on the look out for a man in their lives. Drood’s heart had leapt at this admission. He was poised to move in for the kill when Claire delivered her knockout blow on his undefended emotional chin.
“Drood” she had begun, gently rolling the “R” and leaning forward so that he could get a better look at her cleavage. “Both Tara and I are single and in need of good men, and we wanted to ask you something…” Drood, as calmly as he could manage replaced his pint on the table, but inside butterflies were going ape-shit and his breath shuddered slightly. Was she really going to say next what he thought, hoped and prayed she was going to say? Something along the lines of “can we come back to your house and give an impromptu display of lingerie wearing and Sapphic tendencies for your delectation?” Did she bollocks…
“What we wanted to ask you was, do you know any nice single men you could introduce us to?” His heart slapped onto the floor, flapped around pathetically for a second or two and then expired. He tried to regain some composure and raised an eyebrow quizzically in a way that he hoped would be attractive.
“Well, there is one name that springs to mind…” He growled in what was a passable imitation of a sexy voice. Tara sat forward excitedly and Claire’s big brown eyes twinkled.
“Oh, do tell!” said Tara. Drood licked his lips slowly, ready to deliver his trump card.
“Me” he announced, proudly. Silence descended on the snug.
“You?” said Claire and looked in bewilderment at Tara. Drood’s confidence evaporated.
“Err… yes, me” he repeated, only this time in a timid rather pathetic little voice. Claire reached over and stroked his arm gently.
“Oh you sweetie, always trying to cheer us up with a joke. You are just like a brother to us, totally safe and trustworthy! That’s why we love you!” She finally emotionally murdered him by giving him a chaste, innocent peck on the cheek and stood up and headed for the bar. Tara remained briefly. She looked hard at Drood.
“You fancy her don’t you?” she said sharply. Drood nodded dumbly and smiled apologetically at her.
“Dreadful isn’t it?” He ventured in a joking way. Tara stood up and picked up her drink.
“Yeah” she breathed. “You know you don’t stand a chance, don’t you? Claire’s completely out of your league.” She added. Another emotional boot in the bollocks. She drained her glass and went off to join Claire. Drood sat for a second in silence. He had already drunk too much and was getting towards “emotional” in more ways than one. But he would be OK; he would settle his emotions and go out into the bar again. He just needed a couple of seconds to calm him down and get everything under control again. Just at that second, some complete knob-end put on “Hurt” by Johnny Cash on the juke box and Drood dissolved into a mass of snot and tears. Heaving shoulders and gasping breaths. He would have to do what a man had to do. He was going to have to get very, very drunk and make some completely futile gesture of love and admiration.
Downstairs in his kitchen the following morning Drood poured water into his kettle for a cup of tea. His mind recovered what he had finally done at the pub last night. He groaned with embarrassment. Seven pints of Summer Lightning and a couple of whiskies were probably not the best way to begin a romantic plan, but the purchasing of large amounts of crab sticks and winkles from the woman who came round with the shell fish tray and then attempting to give them all to Claire and Tara as a token of good will and unbridled lust was definitely a no-no. The added ingredient sure to make this whole scenario collapse was the fact that Claire and Tara were by this time completely surrounded by the Hulke Barbarians Rugby club and enjoying their attentions as they were all obviously completely unlike brothers to them. Drood had completed his utter embarrassment by throwing a winkle at the Rugby Club captain, had just missed having his head taken off his shoulders by the said captain and had been rescued by his best mate Bryan Camfield who had helped him stagger home, pausing only to throw up in a litter bin. As he poured the boiling water from the kettle into a mug for some tea this following morning, he could only console himself with the idea that one day he would look back on all this and laugh. Probably sometime during the next ice age.
1 comment:
Ow. Been there... tho' not in that situation. I'm always the 'sweet' guy dammit. Even tho' I am actually a fiend in vaguely human shape.
This is great Mike, funny and heartbreaking at the same time... and a little too close to home on the hangover front too!!!
I have trouble finishing novels too... so I then go and start another... which I also have trouble finishing... so then I... well, ahem, you get the idea!
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