Dipsomania House

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DIPSOMANIA HOUSE

The early morning chorus of phlegm began in earnest that day, it seemed
that the house was making a collective effort to clear all the tobacco
ridden sputum from it's lungs. Dan, Mac and Pat were coughing their
lungs up in a ritual on three different floors at 8.30am one Monday
morning and it was music to the ears of Nancy, the American woman that
ran the hostel. "Mornin' boys!" she shouted up to them "I'm just doin'
some toast and jam down here, you comin' down?" "Yeh alright I'll be
down in a tick," shouted Snooker Pat as he stuck his head around the
bathroom floor. Pat had only a few hours sleep and was not normally up
at this time, but their was a snooker match with one of the other
hostels that week and his position as house champion warranted him
being match fit so he was up early to get some practise in.
Pat was a Dublin man who'd fetched up in England after being barred
from every pub there and had served several prison sentences for
grievous bodily harm. His particular trick was smashing snooker cues
over the heads of people who'd upset him, and not because he'd lost a
snooker game, when that occasionally happened he was always sportsman
like. No it might be just a look that he perceived to be threatening or
heaven forfend someone spilling his drink.
Dan or B.F.G. as he was known in his absence, scratched his enormous
belly, which for all the world looked like a tumescent boil which had
grown out of all proportion to its progenitor and now needed lancing.
He was six feet two and twenty stone; in his prime he weighed in at
around sixteen stone. He'd always been on the wrong side of the law,
from petty stealing as a teenager progressing to get-away driver on
armed robberies. He'd tried boxing for a while but thought that was a
mugs game and he was no mug, thieving was a lot easier. But after
spending several terms at Her Majesty's Pleasure decided to go
straight. He became a bouncer and personal minder and made a pretty
good living until the booze made him a liability. He eventually spent
many years living rough on the streets eating out of dustbins and
drinking cheap cider, meths or surgical spirits. And fighting always
fighting, trying to forget. He never knew what. He stumbled into an
A.A. meeting one day and a very dim light went on.
He farted long and loud and sighed pleasurably. He picked his teeth up
from the sink, jammed them in his mouth and grinned at his ugly mug in
the mirror. Hard to think that he'd once been a choir boy. "Yeh jus'
comin'" he shouted. His nom de guerre given to him by Polly who cooked
in the house owed nothing to Roald Dahl, it simply stood for Big Fat
Git.
'Mac the Strife' (so called because he was always in some kind of
trouble with his family or the law or the newsagent or the bookie or
the lollipop lady who crossed the kids over the street) was combing his
fine head of jet black hair in great sweeps across his head. This was a
ritualistic exercise not vanity, for he was deep in thought about how
he was going to get out of the latest scrape he'd got into. Mac was a
Glaswegian of Polish descent who'd had his fair share of scrapes with
the law, mainly for being drunk and disorderly. He joined the army to
sort himself out but all he learned other than spit 'n' polish and how
to beat other people up professionally, in defence of Queen and country
of course; was how to drink even more. There was a loud knock at his
door which jogged him out of his despairing speculations. "Oi -
breakfast!" it was B.F.G. "Yeh o.k." said Mac "down in a sec".
Nancy was busying herself in the kitchen, she'd decided that toast and
jam was not enough for her boys so she was frying eggs and bacon as
well. 'How can they expect to play a snooker match on an empty stomach'
she mused to herself. The office phone began to ring upstairs which put
Nancy into a mild spin, no other member of staff had arrived yet and
she had a pan full of eggs and bacon grilling and it might be an
important message for 'one of her boys'. This phrase had become an
in-joke mantra amongst staff who couldn't quite care the way Nancy did.
They would always hold up two crooked fingers of both hands when they
used the word, care.
She heard Dan pick up the phone "oh glory ah'm saved" she said. She
didn't know Dan by his derogatory but entirely appropriate pseudonym,
not for Nancy was there to be any name calling or foul mouthed gestures
when she was around. She exuded goodness without affectation to an
almost unconscionable degree and most of the men loved her for it. She
heard Pat wheezing his way downstairs 'oh if only he would stop
smoking' she thought, it seemed a pity to save yourself from booze but
then die instead gagging for breath from some respiratory disease.
Nancy never did quite grasp the nature of addiction and what it was
for.
For the men, smoking offered them some sort of a life no matter how
costly in fiscal or physical health considerations. They didn't stagger
around bloodied any more, they didn't piss the bed or themselves, they
didn't smash bottles over strangers or friends heads for passing the
most cursory of glances at their wives or girlfriends. They didn't head
butt those same wives or girlfriends for having done something to
warrant that attention. They didn't have to drink water from the toilet
cistern when they woke at 4a.m. in the morning, with a mouth that felt
as if they'd been chewing powdered cement all night, in whichever
police station cell they happened to be in this time. No - fag smoking
was an altogether less harmful addiction for themselves and the rest of
society. But the brutal fact was that for nearly all these men once
they'd left the comfort of the house, they would return to suicidal
drinking and if they were lucky a quick death. The favourite was
choking on their own vomit.
The conferring of nicknames on people was essential as there were so
many Pats, Dans, Micks, Johns etc. who passed through the house they
simply needed to differentiate. When they were called together usually
by Nancy they knew that they'd heard that Manchester John or Birmingham
John had been found dead and so on. They became inured to it, they
might well have been informing them what was for supper that
night.
The satisfying clack of snooker balls could be heard from the snooker
room "Yah getting' an early start huh?" shouted Nancy "Yeh I heard they
got 'emselves a pretty smart player down at the crypt" shouted Pat in
reply as he continued playing, is there any tea on it"? "Yup comin' up"
replied Nancy as she clacked a few cups together, echoing the sounds of
the snooker room but not with quite the same grace as Pat managed on
the green baize. Dan came into the kitchen doing his imitation of a
warthog in search of food.
"Awight me dear? cor that smells good" said Dan his eyes beadier than
an abacus.
"Yeh I'm fine an' how are you? - who's the call from?" Nancy was busily
turning eggs, grilling bacon, buttering toast and making tea. "Ah,
you'll make someone a great wife one day" said Dan pinching a piece of
toast and shoving it in his mouth. Nancy began creasing up with
laughter but this hid a painful secret from her past. She had been a
very faithful and dutiful wife; unfortunately her husband had not
shared her Christian values. He certainly never observed the seventh
commandment.
"An' I'm sure you'll make someone a great husband one day" laughed
Nancy as she waved a spatula at him.
"Who's the call from"? she said between giggles. "Oh it wuz just one
'o' them agencies for teenage girls again, they wanted to know if we
could put up a couple of French birds for a week so I said yeh number
10s' free." Number 10 was of course Dan's room.
"Oh mah Gahd ah hope yuh didn't" When Nancy got at all embarrassed a
Southern drawl would creep into her accent. "Nah course not, I told 'em
we wuz a men's 'ostel".
"Oh glory be, I must get the telephone company to change the wording in
the directory".
There had been embarrassing moments in the past when young girls and
boys had turned up at the door from all parts of the world only to be
turned away. But there was one night that a couple of young girls did
spend the night due to a lack of staff and the deviousness of a former
inmate. Devious comes easy to an Alcoholic.
How Nancy came to be looking after a 'dry house' for a Christian
charity in London, is not so much a mystery rather than the combination
of a failed marriage, a desperate yearning to put her self thousands of
miles away from small town America and its gossip, her strongly held
Christian beliefs, and a chance meeting with an ex-nun called Yvette
Ffranck. She had started up the charity 'to help the poor unfortunates'
and wanted someone to run a hostel she had just acquired from a
Christian housing association. Nancy seemed to fit the bill as manager
just perfectly. Miss Ffranck's strange name was discussed less often by
the men, as to the question of why she was an ex-nun. It was rumoured
that she had been caught in bed with a man of the cloth. Some wag
quipped that it brought a whole new meaning to 'bashing the Bishop', to
general hilarity.
If Nancy had been told what the job entailed she might well have had
second thoughts.
She would have to be part prison warder, part nurse maid, part social
worker, part therapist and part bouncer, with no knowledge or work
experience in these fields. She was ignorant of fire regulations,
health regulations, the regulations concerning hostels and she remained
resolutely so throughout her tenure. Yet she instinctively managed a
balancing act that would have been the envy of any trapeze artist.
There were men in there who had committed dreadful acts of violence yet
there was only one real skirmish of sober men in all the years she ran
the place. She had shouted "what the fuck is going on!". You could have
heard a mouse breath. She confided with Polly later that she felt so
dreadful about shouting and swearing; less so about evicting the two
men.
Nancy fitted the bill, or so Yvette thought.
Yvette was a small Irish woman with a strange name a pronounced lisp
and an agenda.
She had the crusading zeal of a Jehovah's witness with the same
tolerance afforded those that did not share in her grand vision. Quite
what the 'grand vision' might have been she didn't care to share with
anyone, and no one had ever had the temerity to question it. She was
also the Chair of the committee that ran the charity but in effect she
was the committee. On her infrequent visits to the hostel she became
increasingly concerned about how it was being run.
"Where's me bleeding tea" joked Pat, although with Pat even a joke
sounded menacing.
This was a man who loved the sights and sounds a victim made when a
glass was pushed into their face as they were about to take a drink,
the cracking of the glass the gasps and shouts of the onlookers and his
victim, the mixing of the drink and blood as they gushed forth. He
would put them out of their immediate misery by grabbing their lapels
and 'nutting' them, thereby rendering them unconscious. He was quite
soft hearted in his own Psychopathic way. He often bragged he was
feared throughout Dublin. No one disputed it.
"Tea's just comin' Pat" said Nancy as she swung into the dining room
with a tray of eggs and bacon and several mugs of tea. "We can't have
the champion going thirsty now can we? - and here's a little breakfast
for yah too". "Oh cheers Nance" said Pat. "Give yer a game later" said
Dan "but I gotta get some grub dahn me first". "Yeh o.k. pound a game?"
Nah I'm broke" said Dan "but you always skint me any way". Dan was as
good a player as Pat but when there was money on the table on a game,
he would tense up slightly and jib at vital balls, unlike Pat. Just
another one of those side advantages of being psychotic.
Nancy heard the front door slam and the clump of very important boots.
'Ah that must be Bob' she thought or Robert as he kept correcting her.
She regretted employing him as he was a little autocratic, she'd always
thought that the rejuvenating determine of the house would affect the
members of the staff as well. She went upstairs to de-brief him of the
nights non-events, 'handing over' is what it's called in the trade.
Gossiping amongst the staff thought the men which in truth was
right.
"Oh mornin' Buh sorry I mean Robert, we Americans we have this terrible
habit of shortening every name, how are ya?" She shut the office door
behind them both.
"Yes I'm o.k. Nancy how are you, how'd it go last night?" said Robert.
"Ah nuttin' Bob quiet as a mouse". Robert winced inwardly at the
crunching that the English language received from Nancy. But then he
thought that about most Americans - 'God we give them the bloody
language and they mangle it backwards at us through a fucking prism'
he'd confided to a friend when he'd had one beer too many. Robert was
an ex-actor who'd done the whole stage school bit and had acted in rep,
played a few bit parts on radio and television. But of course the life
of a resting thespian does not provide for a sound future, he needed
structure in his life, he had three failed marriages behind him and was
beginning to get on a bit - he was 42.
It had never occurred to Robert that the marriages failed partly due to
his emotional and intellectual truculence. But after receiving
counselling at the behest of his third wife decided that here was a job
he could do standing on his head. It was after all very like acting and
although the pay was not fabulous at least it was regular. And with
typical thoroughness had sat up for a few nights and consumed vast
amounts of books on all kinds of therapy. He told friends that he was
just learning his lines for a new part.
After a correspondence course and a few stints at the Samaritans (where
he often felt like saying to some of the bloody whingers to go and
bloody well top yourself then!) he ended up doing some voluntary work -
just to feel his way in - in the alcohol recovery sector and eventually
landed a job at the house. His low-key performance at his interview
with Nancy would have earned him an Equity card alone.
But Robert had a problem with his co-workers and superiors. They knew
nothing. And in some senses he was correct. Well about discipline
anyway they were complete amateurs.
"What these men need is discipline, they've led such disorganised lives
they need to be
'held'" he's was very fond of repeating". But nobody seemed to care.
The rest of the staff seemed to treat the men as equals and allowed
them free access to every part of the house, my God they even used the
office toilet!. What these men need is some structure in their
mis-begotten lives and he was going to see that they damned well got
some. He didn't count on Nancy's legendary capacity for listening to
sound advice, agreeing completely and then just ignoring it. 'Like
trying to push fucking custard uphill' he would mutter to
himself.
There was one member of staff he felt he could trust and maybe mould
into a trusted aide and that was Deidre. She was very young - 22 - and
was resented by the men because of this. She had to take her turn of
overnights which meant she wielded power over 14 men. They felt that
she could not have any real life experience, and in that regard they
were probably correct. This was conveyed to Nancy on the odd occasion
when a house meeting was called but Nancy would smile that crookedy old
smile and say "lets just give her a chance, we all have to learn". And
no amount of reasoned argument would budge her. The one thing Deidre
had going for her was good looks although she was a bit of a
retro-hippy, long floral dresses, tie dyed shirts, Doc Marten boots and
a habit of saying 'far out' and 'groovy' and she certainly appeared
stoned a lot of the time. But Robert had noticed under the hippy
camouflage that when she stood in front of the window with the sunlight
shining through her wispy dress, that she had a great pair of tits and
legs up to her shoulder blades. He thought it might be exciting for
them to explore the 60's ethos of 'free love'. But she'd have keep the
Doc Martens on of course.
The handover complete, Robert would always feel it incumbent upon him
to read the newspapers from front to back. He always maintained that he
had to retain his 'street-cred' with the men, with not a hint of
disingenuousness. No one could work out whether he was a consummate
actor and was taking the piss or actually believed it. Billy the 'Whiz'
observed one morning 'It's an onerous task but someone's gottae do it'.
Everyone in the room laughed including Robert but inwardly he seethed.
He'd never liked being mocked. He noted who had made the comment and
decided that very soon he would suspect him of drinking, he would make
these suspicions known to Deidre and 'is there some way we might help
him'. Deidre would then make her feelings known to Nancy, and Billy's
tenancy would be terminated. The phrase 'can I have a word' by Nancy,
struck fear into the boots of the men - because it meant one of two
things - pack your bags now or, I've got my eye on you so you might
just as well pack your bags now. The surprising thing was given the
temperament of the men no one ever complained.
Billy the Whiz was so called not because of the Viz magazine character
or with any reference to drugs. It was because Billy was always just
going to whiz down to the shops or down to the West end or to the girl
friend etc. He might well have been called Billy the 'prop' for his
legendary capacity for malapropisms which touched everyone who heard
them. Well not so much touched as left them catatonic with laughter,
and left poor Billy with a quizzical look on his face. Billy had a few
rivals in the malapropism stakes but not one that might be called an
equal.
The rooms upstairs were beginning to shift not quite with what might be
described as activity, but with a kind of bumbling unthinking
intensity. There was a lot more coughing. Don farted long and loud.
"For God's sake would you not do that!" said David to his room mate.
Don was never at his best first thing in the morning. He'd told his
room mate this many times. His Oxbridge educated room mate David. Not
Dave of course but David. An Oxbridge education will teach you that.
God it's so common to truncate a name. But my God with all the money
their parents spend on their education they don't teach you - EVER -
when you find yourself sharing a room in a 'dry house' with a guy that
is SO MUCH bigger than you and has told you many times 'I'm not good in
the morning' DON'T just fucking DON'T pull him up on points of social
etiquette like farting. First thing in the morning.
Don who was 6ft 2ins, and wide in a sense that meant you're gonna have
to be very good to put me down. He went over to David and pointed a
menacing finger at his room mate. "See you ya poncey fucker, yooah not
with yooah poncy fookin' mates at some poncey fookin' shirt lifters
club, you're in a fookin' dry house for fookin' alkys that's where you
are - now - dy'nooah why yooah here man?, cos you're a fookin' alky
like the rest of us and don't try getting' high and all fookin' mighty
with me - ookay?'. Don was a Geordie.
"O.K." said David. "But I was only objecting to the smell that's
all".
Don realised that he would have to kill his room mate to shut him up.
But he didn't want to do the time - and besides he quite liked the
skinny long streak of piss.
"Oh and by the way I'm not a shirt lifter for what it's worth" said
David.
"Ooh yer not are you? Well yooah fookin' sound like one to me, ya
dickead".
"So; Homosexuals sound like me do they? (Yes Don interjected) well I'm
sorry Don but I'm unequivocally heterosexual and have been since I had
my hand on my dick (You sure it was yours? -Don again) no I don't think
about boys or men. Most of the time I think about girls, not too young
mind you, but from fifteen to fifty. Is that O.K. with you?"
Don hung his head slightly and said "Ay I'm sorry man I was out of
order, I'm just a little bit tense, yah know what I'm saying". "Yes I
know" said David "I've lost a wife and kids too and it cuts me to the
quick to think that she's thinking of finding someone else to supplant
me". "Yah wha', can you speak fookin' English 'cos I canna understand
you" said Don 'you and your poncey words no wonder she's thinking of
finding someone else to replace you, it would send me ragged listening
to the likes ah that man"
David knew not to argue the toss because Don was building up a head of
steam with an eight stone advantage and a temper to match. "Yes I'm
sorry" said David after a few minutes "I just meant to say that she's
going out with other men at the moment".
"Yah what!" Don exploded "and you're letting' 'er get away wi' it"
shoving his face into David's "What you should be doin' is forgettin'
all these poncey fookin' words and yer meaningful dialogue, whatever
that means and go round an' chin 'er and 'er fookin' dopey, chinless
wonder boyfriends" David knew enough of Don's past to know that Don had
had exactly the same sort of marital problems and had tried to sort
them out in just such a manner; and had ended up in prison for his
troubles. But one fought shy of pointing this anomaly out in Don's
argument.