Like father like son?

The Oak was quiet with only Andy Lewis securely bonded to the bar. There were a few lonely drinkers in shadowy odd corners, but that was about it. We joked about the day, exchanged building stories, enquired as to whether or not the dripping tap had been installed at Planet Lowton, along with periodically scrutinising the quality of the Stella and Becks. Jo has been fasting the last few days, as she seriously intends not drinking for six weeks: watch this space. David and Adele, whom we had not seen since our trip to France, joined the company the conversation extending into amusing travelling stories, regional French food and wine. It was a sweet evening until Robert arrived; he calmly sat down with his pint clutching his newspaper. Glancing up from his tabloid Robert with all the inherent perception as well as the despotic mediation skills of his father, turned to Chris remarking foolishly, “When are you going to shift all of those cars from my dad’s driveway, he returns from Scotland today and he’ll go ape shit if he can’t park?”

 “I beg your pardon,” replied the astonished Mr.Ball, “there is only one vehicle that official belongs to me, I believe it’s the one that I have loaned to Danny so he is able to get to work. He used his bike once and it burnt the arse off him; he mentioned having an arse like a gas ring after just one journey. I was doing him a favour lending him a car whilst his own ‘two’ cars were off the road offering also a period of gentle healing for his inflamed bumhole. Listen, listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I shall phone Danny straight away asking if he could return the BM and the Merc to my house, the Disco can go down to Nigel at Scarisbrick street!” Robert attempted, in vain, to rescue the situation by rephrasing his request. The damage was done. Fuming, Chris phoned the bewildered Danny “listen Danny, I want you to bring the Merc and the BMW up to my house, immediately, Robert has just informed that his father returns tomorrow and insists that I remove all of my cars from the drive!” Andy and I looked at each other both of us raising eyebrows at the same time. The one-way telephone call only lasted a few moments, Robert at every opportunity tried to intercede hopelessly, eager to calm the situation. “I didn’t say that,” claimed Robert meekly. “Oh, yes you did!” returned Chris, forcefully. There were several more exchanges, descending further into accusations punctuated by grovelling apologies “you try to do some one a favour, it’s never appreciated, who’s the mug here?..etc..etc”. Once the dust had settled it was decided that since the Merc had just been sold (incidentally to a worst mythering old choot in the world) and the BM was presently ‘back on the road’ the only vehicle that required moving was the Disco. I agreed to pick up the Green goddess the following morning; problem solved…until. 

With his arms around Chris’s shoulder Robert made another monumental blunder. “Just because you’re Stella’rd up, it does mean you have to go off on one, you’re my mate Chris” greased the smiling Robert. Andy and I caught each other’s eye silently mouthing, “fuck me, big mistake”. To accuse Chris of being anything but a ‘tidy’, thoughtful drunk who became incapable of reasoned logic is no less than a capital offence. This was a personal insult, even coming from a close friend this would have been unforgivable, irretrievable, but coming from a mere boy it was unbelievably naïve. The red mist descended, Robert was put in his place with a few choice words. Me thinks, there will have to be plenty water under the bridge for this to go away.