The Life Of Jim ( Part 4)

I wake to my usual surroundings and feelings. My little flat is a bit untidy but mostly clean. My throat is dry and my head is sore. This is not a hangover, I stopped having those years ago. This is my normal. The first thing I need to do is use the toilet. Drunks are never constipated, I believe it’s nature's way of cleansing the body after a long day drinking. I always feel better after I’ve pulled the chain and watch the contents of the pan disappear before my eyes. Something in my head says “Another shitty day gone, now we can move on.”

 I wash my hands and throw cold water over my face and hair. I might take a shower a bit later.

Something is staring at me on the kitchen table. It’s an unopened can of lager. I feel like it’s a challenge. I graciously accept the challenge, open it and down most of it in one gulp.

I went to bed about 1.30am and now it’s just after 6am. That’s the other thing about drunks. We don’t sleep. Yes, we pass out a lot, but we don’t sleep.

There's a dish on the table, it's where I throw the contents of my pockets before I go to bed. Sarah made it years ago when she did pottery classes. I’m relieved to see there's still some twenty-pound notes in there. I have a quick count up. One hundred and sixty pounds and some change. Today will be a good day.

I start to open yesterday's post. One letter has a horrible look about it. It’s brown and looks official. I open it and quickly read it. The last sentence gets me worried. “If you do not respond to this letter your benefits may be at risk.”

Now, I’m in a council flat, they pay my rent and council tax but nothing else. I pay for gas, electricity and my food. I figure that working for the brewery for over twenty five years and paying tax and national insurance every month entitles me to something, so I have no problem accepting the handout. I read the letter again. They are saying they have to do some kind of check on me to make sure I’m still entitled to the benefit. They're also telling me to respond online. Fucking twats, how can I do that if I don’t have a computer or Wi-Fi or email? I just have a basic mobile phone for Christ's sake, the most it can do is take a photo or send a text. I know where the council offices are and I’ll go down there and try to talk to someone face to face, but the last time I did that I ended up being escorted from the building. Apparently, I used the “F” word too many times and they called security. Mind you, I might have had a few beers on the way. Fuck it, I’ll leave it till next week. Today is all about having a good time.

I walk down to the corner shop. I say hello to Mr Ahmed, who I swear is behind the counter for fourteen hours a day.

“Morning Jim. Usual?”

He’s already got a newspaper and a six pack of beers on the counter. It’s only 7.15am. This man knows me better than anyone.

“Yes please, and I’ll take a half bottle of that cheap vodka.”

Mr Ahmed smiles and reaches for the Vodka.

I pay him and go to leave. Mr Ahmed calls out.

“You have a good day Jim.”

I waive and suddenly remember something that happened ten years ago. I was in the shop, and a guy came in and tried to jump over the counter and take the contents of the till. Mr Ahmed tried to defend himself and protect his takings, but the young guy gave him a clump and knocked him sparko. I stood by the door. Now way was I gonna let this scumbag leave. I’ll always remember what he said to me. “Get out of the way, old man.”

He shouldn’t have said that. No way was I an old man. So, the bottle of cheap scotch that I was holding came crashing down on his head. There was claret everywhere. He was out cold. For a minute, I thought I’d killed him. I stayed with Mr Ahmed until he woke up and then decided to leave before the old bill got there. Next day, Mr Ahmed had a free bottle of scotch waiting for me. Good stuff, Glenfiddich, not the usual cheap crap that I drink. He’s a good man is Mr Ahmed.

Back indoors, I turn on the TV and open up a can. BBC News. What upper crap they spout out. I watch and listen as some tosser is telling me that he’s got a phobia for trains. He can't go near a railway station, and the sound of a train makes him shake and sometimes break down and cry. I turn off the TV, but not before I’ve shouted, “Well take the fucking bus then, you wanker.”

It's 8.30am and I’ve decided to treat myself to a beer breakfast. I haven’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours, and the thought of a good fry-up and a couple of pints sounds good to me. Wetherspoons here I come.

9.15am and I’ve ordered the full English. I drink a pint while I'm ordering and take another one back to the table. I recognise a few familiar faces. Lenny, nice guy, bit down on his luck lately, and Steve and Martin, two scag heads who I hate with a passion. I’m convinced they nick from people who’ve had a bit too much to drink, go through their pockets when they’re a bit worse for wear. I’m convinced it was them who took sixty quid from me when I passed out the other week down by the benches. I wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.  Lenny comes over.

“Alright, Jim?”

“Yeah, I’m good, Lenny. How you doing?”

He scratches the top of his head. He shuts his eyes and grimaces as if he’s in pain. I wonder if he's got nits. He stops and then looks at his nails as though he's expecting to find something under them.

Before I can answer, he leans in close. “Couldn’t lend me a score, could you Jim. Just till I get myself sorted. Just a week, maybe two.”

Now I have a strict rule in life. I don’t borrow and I don’t lend. If someone wants to give me a few bob then I’m happy to accept it but I don’t borrow. The same goes for lending, I just don’t do it. It’s easier that way, no complications and no confusion.

“Nah, sorry Lenny. Bit skint myself at the moment. But I’ll buy you a pint mate, next time I go to the bar?”

“Cheers Jim. Appreciate it mate. What about Steve and Martin, buy them one as well?”

“No mate. They can fuck off.”

He looks at me, smiles and gives me the thumbs up.

“Cheers Jim.”

I take a mouthful of sausage and a few beans and overhear a conversation between two locals. Not drunks but locals. I hear the name Brenda mentioned. I interrupt them.

“What about Brenda?”

The bigger of the two, the man with the 1970’s porn star moustache, just shrugs his shoulders. “Found dead this morning in the underpass.”

Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.