It’s late, it’s raining, it’s Tuesday night. The Queen’s head stands alone amongst derelict land and boarded up rows of houses. A little light standing out in the rusty coloured sky. An old Union jack flaps, tattered on a pole hanging from above the creaking sign.
Thought I’d pop in to one of my old haunts. Was my local for years. We lived in the next street. They’ve mostly gone now; the streets.
I take my half glass to the bar.
‘Do you have any mild, you know old style mild.’
‘We have draught dog bolter bitter and Ape ale.’
Jesus.H.Chirst!
‘Just half a lager then.’
‘Would you like Czech or wheat?’
‘Just the old kind!’
The guy with a beard and a hair bun smirks and pulls me a Staropramen.
‘Two quid to you mate.’
‘Two quid for half a lager!’
‘Welcome to modern Britain old man!’
I take my half and sit on a chrome backed red leather seat.
I looked around; no telly to watch the footy on, just some repetitive music blaring away. Difficult to even chat in here!
There are groups of well-dressed students I groups knocking back shots and laughing too loudly.
‘Last orders gents and ladies!’
It’s only ten thirty! I thought we had all night drinking these days.
I sink me half, put on my battered trilby and my tatty Mac over my thread-worn stripped suit, and tie; pull up my collar…’Good evening.’ And push out into the thick drizzle.
I stand at the bus stop; the bus is late as they always are these days. It takes eight stops till I get to my neighbourhood. There is a little more life here, though I don’t know anyone anymore.
But it all makes me angry and nostalgic. An Asian shop, open all hours. One time they shopped for us now they have taken over the shops that closed at five-thirty and half day on Wednesdays. Now they can take our money anytime of the day.
I kick the kerb with my ancient scuffed brogues; once they had always shone.
A Greek Kebab shop stands where Alf’s fish and chips once stood. I look at the menu; no fish and chips…I spit on the pavement and light up a Woodbine.
My health’s not what it was. Doc says I’ll croak it if I don’t stop the fags but, he don’t care really.
And I let it be this way; it was my fault.
I remember when the trains ran on time (But I had supported privatisation)
I remember kids in the street playing safely, kicking a ball; now their grannies gets kicked in the head for their pensions. The once proud working man controlled these streets along with the rolling pins of the mothers with crying babies wrapped round their middle. I had wanted the unions destroyed, the young sent for national service; wanted a throw-back to the glory days, when our unfurled flag smothering everything.
Now the road seems filled with rounded shouldered men staggering past boarded up shops to get home or to a bedsit to sit alone with another can and some reality programme about people on benefits. I pass an alley and sees kids, 12, 13 dealing; they look up at me with red skunk eyes, give a toothless grin and carry on.
-What the fuck you want old man?
I walk away slowly and hum to myself… ‘There always be an England’…Got a bloody tear in me eye, saft sod!
I get back to me two up two down. Roll up pages of the The Daily Mail and get a coal fire going. I get the coal from a garden centre these days; a product of bloody Poland. I had believed the promises of Thatcher about not closing the pits. I should have listened to Scargill, I know now don’t I? I read the front page of a Sun; ‘Read the messages of the missing girl!’ Jesus, who wants to read that? That’s not fucking news! I throw it onto the fire.
On the telly, the prime minister is denying that he lied to the nation again, fucking idiot he is! Sold us a promise of being free, out of Europe, now we have no workers to pick fruit or load baggage at airports and every one on Short term contracts,; wages so low they need benefits too and food banks; breaks my heart, but I fell for it didn’t I. It’s my fault! I voted for these Etonians. Why did I believe they would help the working man? When I look back now I see it was them! It was them that did all this! They promised me a Great Britain And I got a shite Britain. I am sorry! Sorry for the families struggling, the kids with only gangs and drugs to look forward to.
I change channels. On the other channel a programme about the most successful criminal gangs of Northern England, then a film about D-day. I watch with a lump in me throat. And begin to cry again. This happens a lot these days; maybe loneliness? The doctor gives me some pills for me nerves, they help a bit. I turn it off and pour a scotch from a half bottle, one of my few treats these days. I pull back the curtains. In the house opposite an argument is going on, I can feel the fists coming. I looks out down the road at the rusting statue of the steel works standing as a memorial, where I worked till they shut it down. Not profitable any more they said. And I looks further down to the now silent docks, nothing going in or out these days. I take off my suit and clothes and get under me tatty old patchwork quilt, Gladys had hand sown. I turn the lamp off; take a last look through the gap in the curtains at the horizontal rain battering the window and close my eyes.
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