So here we are, just the two of us serving the hoards their Friday night pints. I’m a little out of practice, it would have to be said. The lager (Tennents) and Guinness are easy enough. Bottled beer, nips (particularly those with optics) are no bother either. No sir, the real test lies with the God awful real ale, which James insists on selling because he gets CAMRA recognition for it. The Campaign for Real Ale, beloved by men with lots of facial hair and woolly jumpers. Pouring it is a nightmare, and it takes me a good dozen pints before I manage anything approaching drinkable.
This of course is a Godsend for the locals, intent on winding me up whenever they can. I can’t even get too annoyed by this, as it’s all in good spirits. It might even be classed as a term of endearment. Scotland, where we tell you we like you by taking the piss.
“Fir fuck sake man, there’s a head on that like Peterhead,” I hear from one side of the bar, and
“I wish my wife gave head like that” from the other, all accompanied by hooting and laughing from the assembled stalwarts of the Seaview public bar.
They have a point though, my first efforts are two thirds froth and one third beer, at a push. The thing with this stuff is that not only does the CAMRA accreditation draw in the beardy types who come here to study the bird life and their bearded rock bothering cousins, but a lot of the locals will drink it too. This, however, is not due to the quality being better, or the beer being smoother or any of that, it is simply because at £2.10 per pint it is a whole 10p cheaper than the lager.
I am absolutely knackered too, travelling from Edinburgh to Oban on a Stagecoach bus is an absolute ordeal, I can tell you. I won a watch on the Edinburgh – Glasgow leg, and got the two seats to myself. Naturally when I got on at Buchanan Street for the second and infinitely more tortuous leg I was never going to be so lucky. It could have been worse, I suppose, the American lady who sat down was completely inoffensive and didn’t smell, or have a tick of any sort. She did, however, make me embarrassed to read the Irvine Welsh book I’d packed, Filth, lest she read any of it over my shoulder. I fear if she had glanced at any of the text she may have thought I was some sort of deviant.
So, it’s been a long day. Thankfully the clock is drawing towards midnight and closing time, and the thought of a long warm shower and bed is getting ever more appealing as the night goes on.
“Just nipping out for a fag, James,” I tell him as I pick my Benson and Hedges from beside the till.
“That’s a filthy habit, Lewis, I can’t believe you’re still on them,” he says. I flip him the finger as I walk out the door.
Of course it’s a filthy habit, and of course it’s bad for you, but I’ll tell you something – after a day like that it’s worth the bad stuff just to get an excuse for ten minutes peace outside. A lot of folk complained when the smoking ban was introduced. Not me, if anything I prefer it. No more pulling pints then standing at the end of the bar for a fag, now you get to stand outside and breath in the sea air and listen to the waves on the shore a few hundred metres away.
So I light up, and walk down to the beer garden and stand leaning against the fence looking into the dark towards the sound of the ocean. I can just about make out the outline of the shore if I really strain, but can picture the view that, weather permitting, will be postcard perfect from this very spot in a few short hours. The smell of the sea – and not just that, the sheer cleanliness of the air, is really something when you’ve spent a few months in the city. Not that Edinburgh is a terribly polluted place, but still the difference is remarkable.
I’m enjoying my own company, but don’t get the opportunity to savour it for very long. A couple of the younger folk have wandered out for a smoke, I can hear them behind me. They stop, I can tell they are trying to work out who I am before they continue. Out for a sneaky joint, no doubt.
“Christ, Lew, I had no idea who you were there for a second.” It’s Jamie Wellies, so called because he happens to be the grandson of Donald. He, thankfully, does not follow his Grandfather’s lead of wearing Wellington boots every day of the year - tonight he is wearing a pair of white trainers. He sees me looking.
“Just checking you’ve no grown a pair of wellies, mate,” I tell him. “And no, I don’t have a problem with yous having a wee smoke out here, but for fuck sakes don’t let James catch you.”
“Cheers mate, no worries, we’ll keep an eye out,” he says, already in the process of building his joint. I don’t really touch the stuff myself, but I certainly don’t have any moral objection to it. No, the main reason for my abstinence would be that any time I have tried it I end up meeting with the toilet bowl very shortly afterwards. Zero tolerance, in that respect.
I shoot the breeze with them for a while, he’s there with another guy who turns out to be a friend he’s brought over from college in Glasgow. They only arrived over yesterday, and Jamie tells me he’s working in the Coop for the summer. I think half the island works in the Coop in the summer, to be honest, and I mention this.
“Aye, you’re right enough. Mum wouldn’t let me come back unless I got a job though, said she’s sick of paying for me to play on the internet and go to the pub. At least in the Coop I don’t have to work nights.”
When I wander back in James is shouting last orders. As usual, there is a scrum at the bar with all those who can still stand getting themselves at least a couple of pints. It’s an old ritual, he calls last orders ten minutes early so he can get everyone out on time, then they just buy two anyway. I notice him whispering to a couple of the real regulars, and guess he’s discussing the terms of a lock in. Much as I really want my bed, when the door is locked I can stop being a barman so much and can at least have a couple of pints. Anyway, I guess I had way more than a couple because one minute I’m having a discussion about Ross County’s prospective league challenge the following season and then…
Once in a lifetime, the sun goes down, Protect and Survive
…….no, it’s not a Runrig related nightmare – I feel myself moving towards being awake against my will, and even in this state of semi wakefulness I can tell that I’m going to have a hangover to reckon with today. Vague snippets of the messy tail end of last night float at the edge of my consciousness, like blurry photographs of something that happened years ago. I have a photographic memory, almost, of most of the day. Leave Edinburgh, reach Oban, have a beer, go to the Coop, get on the boat, walk to the hotel, get the crack, serve drink, have one myself, check clock, lock up …then everything goes a bit tits up. Here’s what I remember.
By 1.45am Wellies (Snr) has collapsed on top of the pool table but is still singing Hi Ho Silver Lining. Jesus. He must be in his late seventies.
2.30 James, Don the Boat, Fisherman Bill and English Jamie are arguing over best fishing flies, of all things and it’s getting really heated. That’s whisky for you. The devil’s water, indeed.
3.00 Several (extremely) drunk women are standing with their arms round each other singing a terrible, horrible version of ‘Dignity’ by Deacon Blue.
And there endeth my recollection of the evening, Your Honour.
So I’m lying there poleaxed and the alarm is getting louder and louder and I have no option but to get out of bed except I’m not in bed I’m lying across one of the benches in the bar. My mouth tastes of a mixture of whisky and cigarettes, and my head is pounding as if it’s going to explode. The smell of stale booze is overpowering, really really strong, and I feel like death itself. Worse than that the alarm I heard is not an alarm but the jukebox and my dear Uncle has decided that it’s a good idea to wake me up with Runrig – fucking Runrig – blasting out of the speakers at a steadily increasing volume.
I swear to God I would kill Donnie Murdo if he was here just now, anthemic Gaelic rock not being a great antidote to the shitload of drink I appear to have drunk the night before.
“Ok, ok I shout, will you turn that rubbish off?” I swear that he has a constitution made of iron, does my Uncle James. He probably had twice the amount I had to drink last night and he’s standing there in front of me looking fresh as a daisy. Runrig, for Christ’s Sake.
