The Life Of Jim ( Part 2)

It’s Wednesday and I’ve just had two days' work. My mate Tony has got his own Painting and Decorating company. If he’s short of labour, he gives me a call. I’m comfortable with either a brush or a roller, and I work quickly. All drunks are quick workers, they have to be because they want to get to the pub as soon as possible. It was a two-bedroom flat, nothing fancy, just white ceilings, magnolia walls and gloss on the skirtings. Easy. He paid me for three days, but I worked through the night and got it done in two. Tony’s a good guy, he left a crate of 24 beers and half a bottle of vodka in the flat so that I wouldn’t wander off down the pub. Nice touch.

So, today I’ve got a free day and three hundred quid in my pocket. What could possibly go wrong? It’s 9.30 in the morning and I’ve already been to the corner shop and bought a six-pack of beer and the Racing Post. Over two cans of beer, I carefully choose my horses. Only two. I’ll do twenty quid each and a twenty double. That’s sixty quid, but I like to think of it as an investment rather than a gamble.

Ten o'clock and the six pack has gone, and it’s time to visit the local Wetherspoons. They open at 8am for breakfast, but everyone knows it's for us drunks to get an early beer. Funny how the betting shops are always close by.

My Bet is on, and I’m sitting in a corner drinking my second pint. Time for a quick count up. I turn out my pockets and count notes and coins. Two hundred and thirty-three quid and a few bits of shrapnel. I count nine people in the pub. All drunks, apart from a couple who have really come in for breakfast and coffee. I hate these people. Why don’t they just go to the café up the road instead of disturbing our early drinking time? Tossers.

A familiar face walks in. She’s late. It’s Brenda. Usually, Brenda is banging on the door before 8am, eager to get some cheap beer to throw down her neck. But not today. Today, she looks anxious. I call her over. I’ve known her for years and we’ve had some great drunk shags in the alleyway behind the local Tesco’s. It’s only when she sits down beside me that I realise just how bad she looks. She has “bed hair”, uncombed for days, and it seems to be growing in every direction. Her eyes are sunken, and she’s missing a tooth from what was once a nice girlie smile.

“I need a drink, Jim. Can you get me a drink? Please.”

I put my hand on hers. She’s cold, yet it's over twenty degrees outside and she’s shaking.

“Of course I can, Brenda. You sit there, and I’ll be back in a few seconds.”

I go to the bar, order two pints of lager and a house scotch.

I return, give Brenda a beer and the scotch.

She looks up at me. Her dark eyes are as big as saucepans, but there’s nothing alive in the blackness.

“Thanks, Jim.”

She drinks the scotch straight down and then half of the beer. She tells me she’s now homeless, as her daughter kicked her out over a week ago. She’s been sleeping in the underpass below Commercial Road.

I instinctively know what's coming, and I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat. Then she says the line, the line that I’m sure I’ve heard a thousand times from a million different people.

“Maybe I could stay with you, Jim? Just for a few days? Just till I get myself sorted?”

Her toothless grin grows wide, and at the same time, she puts her hand on my thigh.

“I could sort you out Jim, just like I used to behind Tesco’s.”

In these situations, I have a stock answer.

“Sorry, Brenda, I’ve got a couple of mates staying over at the moment, and it’s only a one-bedroom flat.”

She’s quick with her reply.

“That’s okay Jim, no problem…Perhaps I could sort all three of you out? I don’t mind, honestly. It’ll be fun. Yeah? Yeah? Please, Jim?”

I smile and say nothing. Just walk off to the bar. I get another pint and a house scotch. I walk back to Brenda.

“There you go, love. Drink those and you take care of yourself. I’ve got an appointment now with the Recovery Clinic, so I gotta go.”

I’m not sure if she heard me or not, but she’s already drinking the scotch as I walk away.

The “normal” pubs are now open, and the closest is just a five-minute walk away. I’ll have a few in there and see where the day takes me. It’s opposite the Seamans Mission, and at opening time, the lads (and ladies) from the Mission will be waiting to get in and start their drinking day. The good thing about the pub is that the landlord knows his clientele and keeps the prices low. I tried last year to get into the Mission, but there's a waiting list. I’m on it, but to be honest, I’ll probably be dead before I get my chance of a room.  

I arrive and spot half a dozen familiar faces. One of them is Bullshit Billy. I’ve known him for years, nice bloke, but talks utter nonsense. According to Billy, he was once a train driver, a professional footballer, a drummer with an ’80s pop band, and, oh yeah, he once chauffeured for Neil Kinnock! All bollocks of course, but he’s harmless so I just ignore his ramblings. I order a large scotch and a pint. The scotch comes first so I drink it down before Terry, the landlord, has finished pulling my pint.

“Stick another one in there please, Terry.”

Terry smiles and does as he’s told. I take my beer and scotch and sit down next to Bullshit Billy.

It’s not long before I’m hearing a story about how Billy dated Suzi Quatro back in the day and how he had to dump her because she used to get aggressive after a few Gin and Tonics.

By midday, I’ve lost count of how many beers I’ve had, but it’s well into double figures. I’m nowhere near pissed, but I’m what I call “comfortable”. Time to move on. There's a little pub just ten minutes away that does a really good, cheap, strong cider. I’ll stay there for a while before moving back to the Wetherspoons and checking the Racing results in the bookies.

Come to think of it, if Brenda’s still there, maybe we can have a little go behind Tescos.