There is a pub down by the railway line in Fobbington that should have been closed down years ago. There are not words in our normally rich and diverse language to fully do justice to just how awful it is. When I first took on the task of doing the Shinglesea Beach website a few years ago, I refused to advertise it, as I had heard such dreadful tales from people who had either just had a drink there, or had had the misfortune to spend the whole night there. To sum it up, the place is absolutely filthy, it hasn’t had any work done on it in decades (one woman guest said the window in her room was broken, and had been replaced with a black bin liner!), and the staff are rude and miserable.
I won’t say what this place is called, as I don’t want to give it any further publicity, or run the risk of the bastards suing me. When the smoking ban came in 2 years ago, I did hope that this would sound its death-knell, as most of its regular clientele can’t exist for 5 minutes without sucking on their cancer sticks. But then, in October of that year, as a Halloween gimmick, some gormless idiot on one of our local radio stations decided to do a live broadcast from there, as someone had told him it was haunted (it certainly looks like it should be).
As far as I can gather there was some excitement over the light flickering, an upstairs door banging, and somebody caught some orbs on camera. Ever since then this dive has boasted that it is the most haunted pub in the county, a claim which it is impossible to prove or disprove. To my utter dismay, this has given the wretched place a whole new lease of life. Word gets round quickly in paranormal circles, and on one website it was described as “the place where you are virtually guaranteed something is going to happen” (!). Professional and amateur ghost-hunters have been regularly descending on it ever since, and giving it a shot in the arm it most emphatically does not deserve. It helps that it’s relatively cheap to stay at (there aren’t many places in our area, unfortunately, where you can get a room for under a £100 a night), and that ghost-hunters aren’t generally too fussy about standards, as they’re there for the experience, not comfort.
Anyway, the only reason I’m mentioning it now is that Jason and Xanthe had got it into their heads that they were going to spend the night there.
“If anything happens”, said Xanthe You can do a little feature on it for the website”.
“I could not”, I said “I refuse to promote that place in any way whatsoever, and quite frankly, I think you’re raving mad to stay there”.
“Shame”, said Jason “’Cos we was wondering if you and Misty wanted to join us”.
Misty looked absolutely appalled at this suggestion. I said that, even ignoring all other considerations (mainly that it was a dump), we simply couldn’t afford it (I had felt guilty enough about spending £9 on the Harvey Milk dvd, but that had been on my shopping list for months, and I regarded it as absolutely essential to ongoing survival). I did wonder how the blazes they were funding it, and could only assume Jason’s Quality Street jar was being raided.
I was pleased that Xanthe was going to have a night away, as she had got quite down after the election (it was no good it seems me pointing out that the Lib Dems had at least done better than Gordon Brown, because EVERYBODY had done better than Gordon Brown), but I couldn’t help wishing they had picked somewhere more salubrious to go.
As the evening in question unfolded though I almost began to wish we had gone with them. Kristy had some girlfriends round for a boozy dinner, and it was like having a coop full of hysterical hens at the bottom of the garden. I had been outside innocently tending to some plants, when they all spilled out of the patio doors so that Kristy could introduce me to them.
There was an awful lot of shrieking and cooing, and even someone patting my bottom, all of which made me want to hurl my secateurs at them in a hissy fit. I know there are many gay men who adore women, who are in Heaven when surrounded by women, and the more daft and girly the women are the better. Sadly, I have to confess I am not one of them. I think it is fair to say that at times I border on being a misogynist. Some women in my life have become firm friends, but I would be lying if I said I really actively enjoyed female company, and a horde of cackling women advancing on me fills me with horror.
There are some notable exceptions, but on the whole I find women incapable of holding together an stimulating conversation, as their main subjects of interest seem to be babies, bodily ailments, and What’s Wrong With Men. To be fair, I have met plenty of men who bore the shit out of me too, the ones (both straight and gay) who can only talk about their collection of shirts, their cars, or who they screwed on holiday, but then again I don’t have much time for them either! I’m sorry about all this, but it’s the way I am, and I’m getting too old to change now.
Anyway, the booze had clearly been flowing copiously already, and I gritted my teeth at the thought of a long evening ahead.
“We’re going to be doing some disco dancing later”, said Daft Judy “You’ll have to come and join us”.
(“Disco dancing”? Don’t tell me the 1970s are back!).
“I bet he’s good at dancing”, said another.
“No I’m not”, I said “I’m rubbish . I look like I’m trying to stamp out a fire”.
This sent them off into fresh paroxysms of laughter, and much repeating of my little “joke” (somehow I don’t think Stephen Fry has to fear for his job though).
“You’ll have to bring Misty”, said Daft Judy “He’s so sweet and cute”.
“Is Misty your lady?” asked another.
(Lady Misty - now there’s an interesting idea).
Somehow I managed to get back into the house intact, but for the rest of the evening we kept catching dismal snippets of girly conversation wafting over the back yard, such as “I don’t know what we did before hair straighteners” (no, all those centuries upon centuries of human achievement, and all done without the benefit of hair-straighteners. How on earth did Albert Einstein cope with having such frizzy hair?!), and “ALL men are weird and sick”.
Bloody charming!
Jason and Xanthe returned at lunchtime the following day. Xanthe looked upset, but this didn’t unduly alarm me as Xanthe seems to get her knickers in a twist wherever she goes.
“Did you see any ghosts?” I asked.
“No I wish I had!” Xanthe wailed “A nice, friendly ghost would have been better to talk to than everybody who was there!”
“I did tell you it was a dump”, I said “It always has been. When I first came back here several years ago it used to be a bikers’ hang-out”.
“Yeah well there’s dumps and there’s dumps”, said Jason.
“Indeed”, I said.
“The staff were so rude“, said Xanthe “The barman called all the customers freaks and tight-wads, loud enough for everyone to hear, and then at the end of the evening, he chucked the keys at us and said ’you’re on your own’, and left us there”.
“Trusting soul evidently”, I said.
“Who the fuck would wanna nick anything from that place?” said Jason “I know it’s an old building, but the whole place was crawling. It should be closed down. You could catch bubonic plague staying there!”
“And this morning”, said Xanthe “When we went down to breakfast the cleaner elbowed me out of the way so that she could get to the coffee-machine”.
(I must confess I was totally gob smacked to hear they actually had a cleaner! Perhaps not quite so gob smacked to hear she was too busy drinking coffee to actually do any cleaning though).
“And nothing paranormal happened?” I asked.
“Oh yes it did”, said Xanthe “I was kept awake most of the night by loud bangs in the room upstairs, but there was no one staying in that room!”
It seemed that no ghostly happenings though could compete with the dirt of the place for a topic of enthralling conversation.
“And our bath was broken”, said Xanthe “Mind you, it didn’t stop us using it”.
Innocent child though I often am, the significance of the words “our bath” didn’t escape me. I am too shy and retiring though to ask outright about it. Misty - sadly - isn’t.
“Did you use it together?” he asked.
“Misty!” I exclaimed.
Xanthe didn’t say anything, but the simpering look was enough.
“You were dying to know”, said Misty, when we were alone “I could tell”.
“Maybe”, I said “But I wouldn’t be so prurient as to ask outright about it”.
“What’s prurient mean?”
“Oh for God’s sake, Misty! Why didn’t you ever go to school?”
“I did go to school“, he said “I just never learnt anything when I was there!”
I chucked a tea-towel at him and it landed on his head.
It was announced on the 6 o’clock news on the radio that the recession is now over. Just like that (as the late great Tommy Cooper would have said). Almost as if the media have got bored with the idea of it, and now want us all to move on from it. I think though, if it’s all the same to you, that I’ll Wait And See.