In my last few weeks of holiday in my last year at Poly, (now some
preposterously named University), I received a phone call from a
mate's sister. She had bumped into an old school friend in the dole
queue and the two had got chatting. The school friend happened to mention
that her brother and his mates were at a loose end as there wasn't a war
on.
The Wirral Bike as I shall call her for reasons that will become apparent
later didn't think it fit to ask why a war or lack of it would have
anything to do with having a few bevvies.
Arrangements were made; we were to meet them in the Carlton in Birkenhead.
I'd bought a new pair of knuckles with me as we knew the locals to be a
bit frisky because many a time on our way home on the Crossy bus, we would see
combatants topple out of the Carlton into the path of the bus on Borough
Road. We hoped things had changed; they hadn't. A deadly hush fell like a
fallen log in the bar as we walked in so we gingerly wedged ourselves into
a very small corner and waited for the lads.
A moment later, the doors swung
open and three of the roughest lads you could meet strode into the bar
accompanied by a dwarf. I jest not as these three Goliaths plus the dwarf
were dressed in Territorial Army uniform. The locals trembled and we were
instantly gratified when the lads came over to join us.
I can barely recall their names now but I ended up with Eric who had the mental capacity of a narcoleptic sloth. My friend Liz paired off with a lad whom I shall call
Rocky as he looked as if he were capable of eating gravel for breakfast. He
was inordinately proud of his tattoos and proudly brandished various
military insignia displayed on his chest. The dwarf was clearly in awe of
Rocky and had copied a few of the tattoos on his own body. As would be
evident, his chest was a lot smaller than Rocky's and the pair of crossed
rifles virtually covered his body.
The locals looked like they were gearing up for a fight, relating to someone
looking at some one else's pint. Therefore the lads decided to repair to the
TA Mess and as we were regarded as 'a bit of posh', we felt duly
honoured. We had assumed that the Regimental Mess would be a large panelled
room with capacious leather chairs and we would be waited on by white gloved
servants. We were sadly deluded as it was not called a Mess for nothing. It
largely comprised of a hut that had probably been used as a toilet on D Day
but we didn't want to offend the lads and it sold drink-very cheaply.
An
evening of rapid drinking followed interrupted only by Rocky having to lift
the dwarf off the seat, carry him and lift him up so he could reach the
urinal. On one occasion, Rocky complained bitterly in true English
vernacular, "The little f * * * * n g ba * * * * * d has piss*d all over
my f * * * * ng boots"
Drinking time over, the lads shuffled around nervously not quite knowing
what the next move was. The dwarf was slumped in the corner as the six pints
he had consumed had more or less filled his entire body, and besides he was out
of the equation.
The Wirral Bike piped up ''we could all go to Liz's as her
parents are away''. Before Liz could protest, we had piled into her parent's car and sped away, bound for West Kirby about seven miles away.
As Liz's parents were Methodists there was no booze in the house so
we settled for tea.
Cup of tea followed cup of tea punctuated by various
romantic fumblings until we suddenly realised it was one o'clock in the
morning. We gathered outside the house while Liz tried to start the car,
time after time she tried but to no avail. Eric demonstrated his technical
ability by kicking the tyre, the dwarf followed suit which elicited a mega
Tourette's Syndrome type of explosion from Rocky, "Wadda ya think you are
doing to her f * * k * ng car you f * * king wa * *ker!"
If the frantic starting of the car hadn't woken up the neighbourhood then
the stream of obscenities bellowed by a Territorial Sergeant at two o'
clock in the morning certainly did the trick. Liz told us unceremoniously
to ''push off now'' and so we cantered off down the street. The lads were
still in uniform which included heavy loud army boots. The populace of West
Kirby must have thought they were being invaded. Fearing trouble, we headed
for open country with Rocky leading the way yelling for some inexplicable
reason, "HUT! HUT! HUT!"
He was followed by me and the Bike valiantly
trying to run in stilettoes and ra-ra skirts, thus resembling 2/3 s of
Bananarama ; the dwarf bought up the rear. Out of breath, we stopped for
cigarettes near a local beauty spot known for it's seclusion.
It was at this point that the Bike and her lad decided to explore the flora and fauna of
the area. It was then about three o'clock in the morning and the cows in the
field opposite were beginning to stir. It was at this point that Eric
managed to spark the two neurones in his brain together and came up with an
idea, "I know," he said "we'll nick a cow and ride it home!"
For
some unknown reason, Rocky thought this was a good idea and bellowed into
the undergrowth,'' Hoy put your knob away you and get over here!" A very
dishevelled Bike and her lad appeared and were instantly annoyed that their
shenanigans had been interrupted by the announcement of such a foolhardy
plan.
Rocky's superior rank won the day. However, his next statement, "It's alright lads, I've got night vision."
fell somewhat flat because as he attempted to get into the field, he tripped over the fence post. Anxious to re-assert his authority he commanded his brigade to approach a selected cow with all caution by crawling towards it on their stomachs. The obvious did not occur to the intrepid cow-jackers but the sound of the 'cream' of the British Army squelching through the field alerted the cow who proceeded across the other side of the field at a rate of knots.
Breaking file, the lads hurtled
after the cow yelling every obscenity known including a slightly less than polite exhortation for Bike and I to help. Thinking there was such a thing as strength in numbers, we joined in and were soon covered in the brown stuff that the cow didn't want.
Undeterred by the prospect of impending failure, we continued to career
across the field. Defeat finally loomed large for the rejects of Sergeant
Bilko's platoon. As the sun started to rise, we all gradually peeled off to our homes leaving just me and the dwarf on the final leg of what had been a very long journey.
The dwarf and I
arrived on my parent's doorstep unfortunately just as my Dad opened the
front door to go to work. He had the good grace not to ask why his daughter
was standing there with a dwarf covered in cow sh * t.
A few months later, I saw the dwarf, he had been fired from his job as a
postman (!) as he couldn't reach some of the post boxes. I didn't have the
heart to tell him that presumably his colleagues could not bear the all
pervading smell of cow cr * p!
