Sat.07.10.06. An old friend from a past life turned up at the Oak over the weekend, Tom Andy. He was originally a close friend of Joe Berry who had recently moved back to Wigan but like Andy had spent the last 25 years living around Chester as well as Wrexham. Andy planned to enjoy the weekend re-visiting his old haunts: the ones that still were standing, were not car parks or wine bars.
He once worked for Jo’s folks on the agricultural ‘shows’ having the task of keeping an eye on her, hopefully preventing the grubby horny students or flash reps from leading her astray. Andy was ideally suited to the environment of the shows; driving from one end of the country to another, camping out under canvas, in the back of vans or under the nearest table, drinking far too much, not sleeping nearly enough. The cheeky smile, street banter plus the ability to always spot an opportunity served Andy well. His favourite ‘chat up’ usually had some kind of medical twist. The unfortunate girl would be fed soppy sentimental lines of how he had once been compromised by his uneasy duty to the Hippocratic Oath, which he ambiguously preferred to interpret as ‘conscientious concerned sympathy’ for his patient. The final request of a young terminally ill attractive female was her desire to have sex for the last time. Would Andy oblige? Of course, but as he relates, he was caught inflagrante by the resident registrar. The primary care authority without delay dismissed him, issuing the compulsory directive that he should be barred from practising medicine forever. In the eyes of his next ‘target’ he was a caring, compassionate renaissance man who was obviously in torment, torn between statutory medical doctrines and his obligation to assist his patient in every possible way. This chat line never let him down until he foolishly attempted to deliver the same garbage to Jo, who curtly responded with “Fuck off Andy you’re a bloody van driver and lucky to be that!” Andy had momentarily forgotten that Jo was in fact familiar with his background being a friend of Joe Berry along with Andy’s other degenerate mates. But, to his credit Andy could also take the piss out of himself, gamely he would recount stories about his shortcomings that inevitably led to embarrassment. In the sixties, (the first café culture), whilst sitting in the local coffee bar, the “Bod”, he was summoned by a friend to the door who informed him that, “Jane Miller will give you two and sixpence if you take her home and give her one”.
Andy agreed, stuffed the two and six in his pocket then stuffed Jane Miller on the carpet. But curiously after the event, Jane immediately then began to remove her earrings, her blouse and then her skirt. “Wait a moment what do you think you’re doing?” questioned a puzzled Andy. “I’m getting ready” explained Jane. “What for?” repeated a mystified Andy. “Well, you know; sex,” explained Jane. “What do you mean? That was it, come on, I’ve got to get back to Wigan, avanti”. “Can I have a shilling back then?” posed Jane.
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