Mistaken Identity

Another stag weekend: Liverpool this time, prospective groom a scouser. We were at the Moat House Hotel, scene of the odd footballer fracas in the days of the Spice Boys.

I was first into the bar. An old guy was at the corner of the highly varnished counter. He wore a paisley cravat and a sin-dark overcoat. He looked familiar, as though I remembered his face from a younger photograph. He was slight, a tremor in his hand as he lifted a glass of white to his lips. His knuckles were swollen, as if from a fight - with arthritis most likely- and the brown spots confirmed his age. Bright blue eyes looked out above still striking cheekbones. His face had papery skin. I knew him now; former roistering actor, last survivor of a group of three tabloid heroes of the sixties. Two Richards and Peter: firm friends through thick and gin. Two of them had even married the same woman at different times.

- 'Did you watch the rugby?’ I asked, his beloved Ireland had beaten England the previous week.
- ‘That I did. Wonderful.’
- ‘Would you like a drink Mr H________?’
- ‘Thank you, no. I have my one glass. It’s all I take now.’
- ‘In Liverpool for work?’, I enquired.
- ‘Not at all, not much work for us older chaps now.’
- ‘Well then, nice to have met you.’ I said, and left him to his wine.

Just then the rest of the stag party spewed from the lift.

“’Ey, look! It’s that Peter O’__________?’ came the cry.

Mr H_________ lifted an eyebrow, gave a complicit smile and lifted the glass in memory of his glittering youth.