I've never come across a more hilarious book than Chris Pascoe's A Cat Called Birmingham. Its sequel, You Can Take The Cat Out of Slough... is equally side-splitting. You see, I love animals. Really, really, really love them. Whoever is like me can rarely stomach tear-jerking stories and, sadly, those books about heroic dogs and the like are more than a bit heart-breaking. If you have animals of your own, you really do not want to read about brilliant lives, not if they end with a chapter about death, as they normally do. Complete the narrative arc and all that. I even shed a tear at Seabiscuit and that wasn't penned by the people close to the horse, but by an historian, and was tragedy-free too.
However, Chris Pascoe's two books about his cat Brum (short for Birmingham, in case you ain't British) have none of that, so proceed to Amazon fearlessly because these will make you cry, but with laughter. Today I wish to share a couple of pages off the first book which, perhaps bizarrely, aren't about the cat, but about the author's clumsy friend Andy. You'll see...
***
If there could ever be a parallel of Brum in the human world, it is quite definitely you, Andrew Bond.
We'd all gone down to the coast to watch the early afternoon England opener against Tunisia in a huge football orientated pub. There were flags and large screens everywhere, and incredibly tight security. We'd all been damn near strip-searched on the way in and warned in no uncertain terms, by the huge and unsmiling doorman, of the consequences of swearing, aggressive behaviour, breathing and most especially narcotic abuse. He seemed pretty angry about even mentioning the word 'narcotic', as if he'd had enough problems with that issue already and he would take not one more bit of it.
I don't know what the matter with Andy was that day, but he was slurring after one drink. As the queues at the bar were massive, it suddenly occurred to Andy that the big four-pint jugs that sorts bars often do (so you can get a while game's worth in at once) would be a better idea than keep struggling to the bar. Leaning over a low balcony beside our seats, he attracted the door-monster's attention by tapping him on the top of his shaven head.
The monster jumped, slightly startled, and did not look at all amused. I thought he was going to clump Andy one there and then, but instead he stared morosely and waited to hear what he had to say.
Andy, very pleasantly, asked him if they did jugs in the pub. Only he didn't say that at all. We all heard his slurry voice mispronounce the crucial word. Consequently he asked the already rattled bouncer, 'Do you do drugs in this pub mate?'
The monster blinked, unsure he could have heard correctly. So did we. Unaware of a problem, Andy continued, 'Only what with the queues, I thought it would be easier if I got some drugs... It'd save keep going to the bar.'
I'd never seen anybody lifted by the throat and dragged down a balcony before. The monster took quite a bit of calming down, but eventually he put Andy down and we watched the game.
Unbelievably, a few minutes before half time, Andy, who was now barely coherent and with a pint sloshing dangerously in his hand, leant over and tapped the doorman on the head again, wanting to know where the gents were.
As the doorman looked up, he was greeted by a face full of lager from somebody appearing to call him a 'toilet'. Protests of innocence no longer withstanding, we were quickly found ourselves outside on the pavement and looking for another pub. By the time we found one that wasn't heaving full, England had won 2–0 and another game had started – Colombia v. Romania. Both teams normally play in yellow, so Romania were in the second kit. The following exchange of words is worth nothing simply to demonstrate exactly how drunk Andy was by this time:
Andy: Wash game ish thish?
Barman: Romania and Colombia.
Andy: Ish it?
Barman: Yeah, still 0–0 at the moment.
Andy: (squinting hard at the screen) I had no idea thersh wash so many black people in Romania.
Barman: Er... no, no mate. That's Colombia in the yellow.
Andy: oh, sorry yesh. Yesh. Where are the Romanians playing then?
And so on. He wisely stopped drinking at this point, but the rot had set in, and the sequence of events as we left the pub ensured that the story of his day would be told whenever his friends gathered, from that day forward and forever.
A huge group of girls in England warpaint and shirts were on the opposite side of the road as we exited the pub door. Andy, still half drunk and beer-bold, shouted some inane greeting to them and was cheered for his efforts Raising a hand in the air and heading towards them, he failed to appreciate that he was at the top of a flight of concrete steps.
He stepped into thin air and tumbled rapidly downwards, stylishly completing a double somersault before landing heavily on his back on the pavement.
His new friends howled with laughter as he clambered back to his feet, making light of it all, laughing and joking, somehow believing that he was still in with a change. He staggered across the pavement towards the road, limping and clearly in great discomfort.
Stepping off the high curb, he promptly yelled in pain as his ankle buckled beneath him and he fell into the gutter. The girls opposite were helpless with laughter. A small crowd had now gathered to see what all the fuss was about.
Now deeply embarrassed, Andy was still trying to make a joke of it all as he staggered up and walked straight in front of a taxi in the middle of the road. The taxi mercifully dealt him a heavy blow, and we desperately hoped that this would deter him from pressing further forward but, spinning on his feet, he amazingly still attempted to make it to the opposite side of the road.
It was like an heroic charge in a war movie, a fatally wounded Steve McQueen stumbling on towards the enemy bunker, bullet after bullet finding its mark but failing to stop him. I'm quite sure a few bullets wouldn't have stopped Andy either. He'd have sunk to his knees in a pool of blood in front of the first girl he reached, and with his dying breath asked her if she came to this stretch of pavement often and fancied showing him the local nightlife or something.
But it wasn't to be. Andy's charge, as it has come to be known, was humiliatingly halted by an enraged taxi driver screaming abuse at him and many people rushing up to see if he needed an ambulance. With all this going on over his shoulder, he still attempted to chat to the now rapidly retreating girls.
I have often read that the doomed charges like those of the Light Brigade and by the Confederate Army at Gettysburg are amongst the most tragically moving and stunningly beautiful sights that it is possible to see.
I now know that to be true.
Hi Steph,
yes, this made me laugh long and loud ~ thank you!
Thank you too for commenting on my blog and for the warm welcome.
Happy Sunday.
Posted by: helen | 01 August 2010 at 01:42