Of course, this may well fully depend on amount of intoxication at said moment, this one being early on in the sessions hence the use of every angle examination. At first it used to think it was gamesmanship, then I just worked out it was natural, which means that when he hits the shot, it perfectly pots the intended ball and lines up the next shot. With the grace of a man who has spend many a stoned Sunday afternoon watching 'The Hustler', he flips open a fresh pack from his inside shirt pocket and sparks up, leading me to wonder whether this is part of some whole caricature he’s invented to entertain his mates.
The Shipwrights Arms is where I've always gone to drink with Charlie since we were 17, leaving school on Friday dinnertimes to learn to play pool. The times we go there are always quiet enough to allow us a few hours of interrupted attempts of playing over cheap pints. This is to be my final weekend before I finally fuck off to Sheffield and luckily he's home from Newcastle for the weekend.
Same as always, he puts a pound of his and a pound of mine in the jukebox and selects Paint It Black by the Stones amongst more recent fare. I elect to get my moneys worth by picking the five longest songs, which includes, much to our amusement, The End. Anyone entering the Arms during that particular 11 minutes isn't likely to find the soundtrack one to encourage jovial drinking. Then again, in this town drinking for pleasure is below killing boredom and survival on reasons to do it.
I’m glad to be getting out of here. I thought I’d escaped during my three-year sojourn into student land but this place has claws that can drag you back down. Finally, I've managed to get the motivation and confidence to get out, and it’s crucial I keep my bottle. He has been in my situation before and may well be again. His job at some law firm is looking shaky and rather then have to come back home, he’s looking into joining the Army. Some may say drastic, I call it sensible in the circumstances.
Two pints in and already I’m on one, over half a year of knock-backs, frustrations and constant rejections from every job under the sun has come right to the hilt and I’m found myself an excuse for today.
"I tell you, man, it’s living in this shite-hole that does it. You apply to some job in Manchester or London and the cunt working in the Human fucking Resources department sees your address and thinks..."
I put on some mocking middle class London accent:"‘Oh! Cumbria! Where is that? Up North somewhere? Well, he wouldn't want to move down here, all the noise might scare his sheep! Har har har!’ And they give the job to some arse kissing Cambridge graduate who know fuck all about the job!"
I’m far off the mark and I know it. He nods, takes his shot and doesn't interrupt.
"Thing is with this place, right... no one knows who we are or gives a shit. I know! When I meet people and they ask where I’m from, they go ‘Oh, is that in Scotland?’ ‘Oh, you sound like a Geordie!’ Fucks sake - haven’t they seen a map? Bit hard to bloody miss Cumbria but then, most those gets think England ends somewhere just after Manchester."
I pause to eye up my shot. It’s an easy one, which I obviously miss.
"Shite."
Charlie takes a long draw on his cigarette.
"Aye, you’re not wrong mate. Same crap happened to me and I was only living in Preston. I’d go ‘You ever watch Byker Grove?’ ‘Yeah’ ‘Do I talk like they do?’ ‘Well, no’ and you think ‘So why say I sound like a Geordie? You know as well as I do man, that people are thick as fuck."
The two of us met in the sixth form common room, I can’t remember how we got talking but we did and have somehow stayed friends despite having apparently very little in common outside football and appreciation for beer. Unlike everyone else bar one that I know, I can safely say the two of us will still be meeting up like this when we’re in our 30’s. Though he’s into his night-clubs, smoking his weed and taking regular trips to Amsterdam, he is the only person who has similar slightly sociopathic tendencies to me. An average conversation of ours will tend to eventually swing towards dishing out unique methods of punishment to politicians. After he’s beaten me three games to two, this is where we end up. Obviously, I’ll neglect to mention the names of our hopeful victims.
"
This makes me laugh, he has a great way of thinking up ways to inflict horrible pain on people. Soon, however, we begin to talk about my immediate future.
"Sheffield, huh? So what’s going on down there?"
I’m not sure what to say and spend 10 seconds polishing off a pint to give myself time to think.
"Don’t know. Got a mate who’ll put me up and I’ll take it from there, I guess."
"Well, uncertainty in a city is still a step up from this place."
Which is a better reaction then I got from my parents. That the boy who aged ten was predicted could do anything has wound up directionless and spending his life waiting around for nothing in particular has not gone down well. I could tell you of all the arguments and flak that goes along with being in this situation but I’m sure many of you already know what I’m talking about.
My beer money spent, it’s separate ways time once again for us. We never shake hands and we don’t start here.
"Hope you get it sorted down there, stay in touch."
"No problem, man. If I get sorted you’ll have to drop down for a weekend."
"Yeah."
I go home and pack my single case.
(Note: If you're wondering what Part One was, it was the entry entitled 'Entering the Real World from 18/01/2011)
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