"Av come in ere fr a parnt er Bansly bitter...
Aye
Aye
Aye...
Wiv me dog Gloria, aye, aye....
Aye...."
As with all writings on pub characters, I am significantly enough concerned to confirm that sine I thought of the pun in the title, I haven't seen this man, or indeed his hound, in about three months. Just like I have not seen 60s Clive, or whatever moniker I attributed to him, after my write up of his bizarre hobby of dragging his semi conscious incontinent Mother out with him, ironically, also to drink Barnsley Bitter (and then three pints of cider in half an hour), before his Mother lost interest/the will to live/control of her bowels. Am not suggesting for one moment that there is a link between my musings, strange folk, and Stancil Barnsley Bitter, am simply making an observation...
I have spotted the AR a number of times over a period of many years. I usually spot him in the Gardeners Rest, but have also encountered him in the Kelham Island Tavern and Shakespeares. He has a simultaneously intense yet distracted face, is plainly dressed, and always sups his favoured brown liquid with his dog in tow. I have never paid much attention to the hound but am fairly sure its the same one I have been seeing him with since day one, so it must be getting on a bit. He, meanwhile, is ageless. Which given how tiresome and frustrating his Aye symphony can become, is perhaps ironic.
Last year myself and friend Owen encountered him in Shakespeares. So amusing and yet maudlin was his repetition that we chose to sit outside in the cold to avoid him. However, unlike the troubling drunk with the shitting woman, he is, in fact, entirely harmless. I also heard rumours, and just that, suggesting that he lost his wife to a car accident many years ago, and has never got over it. If that is the case then I feel this once more demonstrates the succourable qualities embedded in the pub environment, although, that in itself is a subject for another post methinks...
To wear my psychological cap for a moment, I do think that the chap suffers from an affliction - mental or social - which inescapably defines the manner in which he espouses not so much this thoughts, but a carefully preplanned, perhaps oft rehearsed, sonnet of simple phrases. This of course, could be triggered by a deep loss. But as I have probably pointed out previously, I am not a psychiatrist or psychologist.....
One of the things I find odd about this affliction is that having found no response to or started a conversation with his two phrases, and possibly having given up his every ten second repetition of the word "aye" the bloke will often, without warning, let out a long and entirely singular aye, almost to remind us that he is still there. Often, when people glance over in surprise, this prompts a question to a usually younger or more nervous looking member of the pub's throng of drinkers, although this unfortunately does nothing to lessen their already palpable shyness, and the aye symphony restarts once again like a forward wound tape reel. If dogs weren't allowed in the pubs I drink in I imagine he would not be in, so it is therefore also notable that the existence of another dog is the final strand at which he swipes, in order to have a more personal symphony of communicative dysfunctionality with.
He does not stick around more than a couple of hours, usually finding that repeating his phrases and the word aye about twenty times is doing nothing to ameliorate his situation, nor to address his perhaps significant needs. He also never says goodbye - even though he already says the second half of it. And have never seen him catch a bus. If you like me are an observer, you will have seen him, am sure...
And heard the word aye.
Aye
Aye....
With regards
Beefolot.
Showing posts with label Sheffield pub characters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sheffield pub characters. Show all posts
Tuesday, 23 April 2019
Monday, 30 July 2018
Antisocial co-dependence
Hiya Kids! Welcome to the funfair of despair......
Obviously, those who know me know that the above is my pet name for work. so its unlikely you will visit said park. Its just that having chosen the title of this amble through ideas I realised it may not sound like a tremendous spasm of fun to read. I mean, its not, but I have tweaked it in my head since meaning to write it four months ago when I first espied the two characters described in the title. On reflection, it no longer seems appropriate to jest....
The above caveat is somewhat undermined by my wanting to describe the couple as the old man who dresses like he is 29 in the seventies and the incredible shitting woman. In fact, its a socially oblivious man in his mid fifties dragging his elderly incontinent and usually incoherent Mother around pubs in Kelham Island until she wants to go home. Usually about ten minutes after they arrive. A chance discussion last week using the ISW descriptor resulted in a comment that made me think about the underlying dark tones of this unusual pub relationship, when someone said it wasn't her fault, it was her son taking her out in no fit state so he can get drunk. Am afraid that is right. Please bear that in mind whilst reading, lest you think I may be enjoying this description of events. Its really a cautionary tale of what happens when a relationship becomes skewed in one half's favour, and the pub is the only place the stronger feels safe.
I was sat in my second home and a man wandered to the bar with an elderly woman. She was wearing slippers, a woolly pullover and loose fitting jogging bottoms. There was an odour. He was wearing a 1970s baseball cap, a shirt, wide legged trousers hoist over his belly with a tight belt and gola trainers. He ordered his Mother a glass of cordial or a tea, I can't remember which, and himself a pint of Stancill, and sat down in earshot. I took a long swig of my cloudy post 8% hoppy soup. Its like I knew.
A man still at the bar, probably older than the bloke, was on his mobile phone. This prompted our societal orator to bemoan the reliance on mobile communications by "the young". The switch had now been flipped. His Mother shifted uncomfortably at the table....
His next treatise was on expensive modern beers, and how the Stancill was expensive at £2.60 a pint, and how the young had no idea what they were doing wit their money. Ripe for an argument, I willed him to ask me how much my drink cost. He didn't. Instead he bemoaned the flavour of Stancill, before ordering a far more traditional pint. Of keg cider. Which he quickly despatched. Two pints down, and we were ten minutes in.
His Mother made a bid for freedom under the guise of heading for the toilets. On her return he berated her about modern life choices and philosophies, particularly those of the young. Jealousy is a very poor character trait, although, sometimes its obvious where its seeds have been sown. "I want to go ome" his Mother said. "Not yet dear, am just going t get another pint" Do you want another drink? "No". Cue chuntering. And another five minute pint. And another rant about the poor quality flavours in modern beer. If only it were 1956. Instead of him just looking like he was still there....
After another pint, he declared he was getting a further one, and I decided to leave the odd show of social awkwardness and co-dependent ambiguity. It wasn't possible to determine if his Mother was being antisocial I should point out. She was just ungladdened to be out. He was trollied. His espousals were even less considered. He was certainly being antisocial.
Seeking refuge over the road in Bar Stewards I had purchased a can of hoppy soup. To my dismay, the odd coagulation of dystopian relationships shambled in. A strange discourse took place between the young wishing old guy and a member of staff. In the end Colin, as I had called him in my head, had another pint of cider. His Mother had a soft drink, later followed by amoebic dysentery. I had left by this stage.
I saw them twice more in the next month, at Shakespeares once again, no doubt bemoaning the cost of the Stancill, and at the Wellington, no doubt bemoaning the arrival of the 1970s. Colin was definitely in charge, and the trespass against his Mother's needs became ever more apparent. Looking back now I can see this melodrama for what it is. A man struggling to look after his semi continent Mother and longing to get hammered in front of other people, who may see the quagmire of his failures and scoop him and his Mother free of them.
I realise this is only slightly about beer and pubs but I do think that it reflects the role that the pub can play in some people's lives. For half the cost and much less mess he could care for his Mother at their home and get far more hammered at much less cost to her dignity and wellbeing. That his need to display this unequal arrangement of care and his bubbling disquiet in the pub says much about the fact that pubs are simultaneously places to meet and drink with friends, as well as a refuge for people with serious and oft overwhelming needs. A strangely impersonal shoulder to cry on.
I dearly hope that somebody who knows them has reported their concerns to social services, assuming they still exist, and that some action has been taken or support offered to meet both their differing needs without the compulsion to cry for help through the lengthy scenes on this maudlin tapestry of regret.
I haven't seen either of them for three months or more. Deep cleans of all Kelham Island's pub's toilets have taken place. There are still symphonies of nonsense, but none upon which so much hangs. I do hope they have found some respite in the midst of their struggles.
Beef
Obviously, those who know me know that the above is my pet name for work. so its unlikely you will visit said park. Its just that having chosen the title of this amble through ideas I realised it may not sound like a tremendous spasm of fun to read. I mean, its not, but I have tweaked it in my head since meaning to write it four months ago when I first espied the two characters described in the title. On reflection, it no longer seems appropriate to jest....
The above caveat is somewhat undermined by my wanting to describe the couple as the old man who dresses like he is 29 in the seventies and the incredible shitting woman. In fact, its a socially oblivious man in his mid fifties dragging his elderly incontinent and usually incoherent Mother around pubs in Kelham Island until she wants to go home. Usually about ten minutes after they arrive. A chance discussion last week using the ISW descriptor resulted in a comment that made me think about the underlying dark tones of this unusual pub relationship, when someone said it wasn't her fault, it was her son taking her out in no fit state so he can get drunk. Am afraid that is right. Please bear that in mind whilst reading, lest you think I may be enjoying this description of events. Its really a cautionary tale of what happens when a relationship becomes skewed in one half's favour, and the pub is the only place the stronger feels safe.
I was sat in my second home and a man wandered to the bar with an elderly woman. She was wearing slippers, a woolly pullover and loose fitting jogging bottoms. There was an odour. He was wearing a 1970s baseball cap, a shirt, wide legged trousers hoist over his belly with a tight belt and gola trainers. He ordered his Mother a glass of cordial or a tea, I can't remember which, and himself a pint of Stancill, and sat down in earshot. I took a long swig of my cloudy post 8% hoppy soup. Its like I knew.
A man still at the bar, probably older than the bloke, was on his mobile phone. This prompted our societal orator to bemoan the reliance on mobile communications by "the young". The switch had now been flipped. His Mother shifted uncomfortably at the table....
His next treatise was on expensive modern beers, and how the Stancill was expensive at £2.60 a pint, and how the young had no idea what they were doing wit their money. Ripe for an argument, I willed him to ask me how much my drink cost. He didn't. Instead he bemoaned the flavour of Stancill, before ordering a far more traditional pint. Of keg cider. Which he quickly despatched. Two pints down, and we were ten minutes in.
His Mother made a bid for freedom under the guise of heading for the toilets. On her return he berated her about modern life choices and philosophies, particularly those of the young. Jealousy is a very poor character trait, although, sometimes its obvious where its seeds have been sown. "I want to go ome" his Mother said. "Not yet dear, am just going t get another pint" Do you want another drink? "No". Cue chuntering. And another five minute pint. And another rant about the poor quality flavours in modern beer. If only it were 1956. Instead of him just looking like he was still there....
After another pint, he declared he was getting a further one, and I decided to leave the odd show of social awkwardness and co-dependent ambiguity. It wasn't possible to determine if his Mother was being antisocial I should point out. She was just ungladdened to be out. He was trollied. His espousals were even less considered. He was certainly being antisocial.
Seeking refuge over the road in Bar Stewards I had purchased a can of hoppy soup. To my dismay, the odd coagulation of dystopian relationships shambled in. A strange discourse took place between the young wishing old guy and a member of staff. In the end Colin, as I had called him in my head, had another pint of cider. His Mother had a soft drink, later followed by amoebic dysentery. I had left by this stage.
I saw them twice more in the next month, at Shakespeares once again, no doubt bemoaning the cost of the Stancill, and at the Wellington, no doubt bemoaning the arrival of the 1970s. Colin was definitely in charge, and the trespass against his Mother's needs became ever more apparent. Looking back now I can see this melodrama for what it is. A man struggling to look after his semi continent Mother and longing to get hammered in front of other people, who may see the quagmire of his failures and scoop him and his Mother free of them.
I realise this is only slightly about beer and pubs but I do think that it reflects the role that the pub can play in some people's lives. For half the cost and much less mess he could care for his Mother at their home and get far more hammered at much less cost to her dignity and wellbeing. That his need to display this unequal arrangement of care and his bubbling disquiet in the pub says much about the fact that pubs are simultaneously places to meet and drink with friends, as well as a refuge for people with serious and oft overwhelming needs. A strangely impersonal shoulder to cry on.
I dearly hope that somebody who knows them has reported their concerns to social services, assuming they still exist, and that some action has been taken or support offered to meet both their differing needs without the compulsion to cry for help through the lengthy scenes on this maudlin tapestry of regret.
I haven't seen either of them for three months or more. Deep cleans of all Kelham Island's pub's toilets have taken place. There are still symphonies of nonsense, but none upon which so much hangs. I do hope they have found some respite in the midst of their struggles.
Beef
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