My Teenage Self wants a word with me.
“It’s your drinking” he mumbles.
“I’ve had four pints and a double scotch,” I say, “That’s respectable boozing!”
“Nah. It’s your conversation. Your demeanour.” Then MTS hisses, “Old man’s pub!”
We’ve always detested old man’s pubs. They reek of stale beer and pee. To remove the old blokes from their stools would need surgery. They glare at anyone who’s not over 70, male or from the other end of the counter. Their conversation is torpid and their attitudes mean enough to steep their dentures in.
I’m nothing like that. Am I?
“What’s wrong with my conversation?” I ask. In fact I’ve just been chatting to Fred. I said “Beer’s good tonight.” He said “Joe in?” I said “No.”
MTS was unimpressed. “Boring! Nothing happens here!!!!”
“Yes it does – look, Joe’s coming in.”
Coming up, Joe said, “Beer good tonight?” I said “Yes.”
MTS sneers. “You’re starting to glare at young people. Like those ones over there.”
“What do you expect?” I cry, “They’re drinking lager!”
I try to rise up from the bar stool to make my point. Inexplicably, I’m stuck to it. This makes me think. Does MTS have a point?
Things used to be livelier. I remember when Joe and I held Harry by the shoulders as he danced on the ceiling. I remember getting thrown from a pub for singing “Three German Officers”.
Maybe I could make the conversation more challenging. Maybe I could drop my trousers and do a tango along the counter….
Maybe not. The company’s fine. And the beer’s good.
I’ll tell MTS to hop it. I’ll start singing soon. And he doesn’t want to be anywhere near.