Flint Castle. Or that’s how Shakespeare had it.’
‘There’s a contrary view, Ev?’
‘Some say it was more likely Conwy but I’d be happy with the Bard’s read,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, the matter closed.
‘We’ll pass Conwy Castle in a bit, won’t we?’
I consulted my
Illustrated AA
.
‘We’ll not,’ I said. ‘But we may well catch a glimpse across the estuary from Llandudno Junction.’
There was a holiday air at the stations. Families piled on, the dads with papers, the mams with lotion, the kids with phones. The beer ran out by Abergele and this was frowned upon: poor planning. We were reduced to buying train beer, Worthington’s. Sourly we sipped and Everett came and had a go.
‘Maybe if one man wasn’t in charge of outings
and
publications,’ he said, ‘we wouldn’t be running dry halfways to Llandudno.’
‘True, Everett,’ I said, calmly, though I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. ‘So if anyone cares to step up, I’ll happily step aside. From either or.’
‘We need you on publications, kid,’ said John Mosely. ‘You’re the man for the computers.’
Publications lately was indeed largely web-based. I maintained our site on a regular basis, posting beer-related news and links. I was also looking into online initiatives to attract the younger drinker.
‘I’m happy on publications, John,’ I said. ‘The debacle with the newsletter aside.’
Newsletter had been a disaster, I accepted that. The report on the Macclesfield outing had been printed upside down. Off-colour remarks had been made about a landlady in Everton, which should never have got past an editor’s eye, as the lady in question kept very fine pumps. It hadn’t been for want of editorial meetings. We’d had several, mostly down the Grapes of Wrath.
‘So how’s about outings then?’ I said, as the train swept by Colwyn Bay. ‘Where’s our volunteer there? Who’s for the step-up?’
Everett showed a palm to placate me.
‘There’s nothin’ personal in this, lad,’ he said.
‘I know that, Ev.’
Ale Club outings were civilised events. They never got aggressive. Maudlin, yes, but never aggressive. Rhos-on-Sea; the Penrhyn sands. We knew Everett had been through a hard time. His old dad passed on and there’d been sticky business with the will. Ev would turn a mournful eye on us, at the bar of the Lion, in the snug of the Ship, and he’d say:
‘My brother got the house, my sister got the money, I got the manic depression.’
Black as his moods could be, as sharp as his tongue, Everett was tender. Train came around Little Ormes Head and Billy Stroud went off on one about Ceau ş escu.
‘Longer it recedes in the mind’s eye,’ he said, ‘the more like Romania seems the critical moment.’
‘Apropos of, Bill?’
‘Apropos my arse. As for Liverpool? Myth was piled upon myth, wasn’t it? They said Labour sent out termination notices to council workers by taxi. Never bloody happened! It was an anti-red smear!’
‘Thatcher’s sick and old, Billy,’ said John Mosely.
‘Aye an’ her spawn’s all around us yet,’ said Billy, and he broke into a broad smile, his humours mysteriously righted, his fun returned.
Looming, then, the shadow of Great Ormes Head, and beneath it a crescent swathe of bay, a beach, a prom, and terraces: here lay Llandudno.
‘1.55 p.m.,’ said Everett. ‘On the nose.’
‘Where’s our exotic dancer?’ teased Mo.
Billy Stroud sadly raised his T-shirt above his man boobs. He put his arms above his head and gyrated slowly his vast belly and danced his way off the train. We lost weight in tears as we tumbled onto the platform.
‘How much for a private session, miss?’ called Tom N.
‘Tenner for twenty minutes,’ said Billy. ‘Fiver, I’ll stay the full half-hour.’
We walked out of Llandudno station and plumb into a headbutt of heat.
‘Blood and tar!’ I cried. ‘We’ll be hittin’ the lagers!’
‘Wash your mouth out with
‘There’s a contrary view, Ev?’
‘Some say it was more likely Conwy but I’d be happy with the Bard’s read,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, the matter closed.
‘We’ll pass Conwy Castle in a bit, won’t we?’
I consulted my
Illustrated AA
.
‘We’ll not,’ I said. ‘But we may well catch a glimpse across the estuary from Llandudno Junction.’
There was a holiday air at the stations. Families piled on, the dads with papers, the mams with lotion, the kids with phones. The beer ran out by Abergele and this was frowned upon: poor planning. We were reduced to buying train beer, Worthington’s. Sourly we sipped and Everett came and had a go.
‘Maybe if one man wasn’t in charge of outings
and
publications,’ he said, ‘we wouldn’t be running dry halfways to Llandudno.’
‘True, Everett,’ I said, calmly, though I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. ‘So if anyone cares to step up, I’ll happily step aside. From either or.’
‘We need you on publications, kid,’ said John Mosely. ‘You’re the man for the computers.’
Publications lately was indeed largely web-based. I maintained our site on a regular basis, posting beer-related news and links. I was also looking into online initiatives to attract the younger drinker.
‘I’m happy on publications, John,’ I said. ‘The debacle with the newsletter aside.’
Newsletter had been a disaster, I accepted that. The report on the Macclesfield outing had been printed upside down. Off-colour remarks had been made about a landlady in Everton, which should never have got past an editor’s eye, as the lady in question kept very fine pumps. It hadn’t been for want of editorial meetings. We’d had several, mostly down the Grapes of Wrath.
‘So how’s about outings then?’ I said, as the train swept by Colwyn Bay. ‘Where’s our volunteer there? Who’s for the step-up?’
Everett showed a palm to placate me.
‘There’s nothin’ personal in this, lad,’ he said.
‘I know that, Ev.’
Ale Club outings were civilised events. They never got aggressive. Maudlin, yes, but never aggressive. Rhos-on-Sea; the Penrhyn sands. We knew Everett had been through a hard time. His old dad passed on and there’d been sticky business with the will. Ev would turn a mournful eye on us, at the bar of the Lion, in the snug of the Ship, and he’d say:
‘My brother got the house, my sister got the money, I got the manic depression.’
Black as his moods could be, as sharp as his tongue, Everett was tender. Train came around Little Ormes Head and Billy Stroud went off on one about Ceau ş escu.
‘Longer it recedes in the mind’s eye,’ he said, ‘the more like Romania seems the critical moment.’
‘Apropos of, Bill?’
‘Apropos my arse. As for Liverpool? Myth was piled upon myth, wasn’t it? They said Labour sent out termination notices to council workers by taxi. Never bloody happened! It was an anti-red smear!’
‘Thatcher’s sick and old, Billy,’ said John Mosely.
‘Aye an’ her spawn’s all around us yet,’ said Billy, and he broke into a broad smile, his humours mysteriously righted, his fun returned.
Looming, then, the shadow of Great Ormes Head, and beneath it a crescent swathe of bay, a beach, a prom, and terraces: here lay Llandudno.
‘1.55 p.m.,’ said Everett. ‘On the nose.’
‘Where’s our exotic dancer?’ teased Mo.
Billy Stroud sadly raised his T-shirt above his man boobs. He put his arms above his head and gyrated slowly his vast belly and danced his way off the train. We lost weight in tears as we tumbled onto the platform.
‘How much for a private session, miss?’ called Tom N.
‘Tenner for twenty minutes,’ said Billy. ‘Fiver, I’ll stay the full half-hour.’
We walked out of Llandudno station and plumb into a headbutt of heat.
‘Blood and tar!’ I cried. ‘We’ll be hittin’ the lagers!’
‘Wash your mouth out with
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