Wenlock (Hoxton)

Colin Smith (The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner)

I ain't as daft as I chuffing-well look. I might have been sent down for that robbery, but, inside the joint or out here, I'm no chuffing fool.

It was a bad move on their part, bringing me to the Wenlock for tonight's race. Think they know me, don't they. Reputation for drinking? Fastest lager boy in t'north? Up for a punt?

Hah! 'appen they know toss-all about toss-all.

Pitch me, the working class northern lad, against one of them southern CAMRA types. They all drink in here, that lot. Public school prannies from Islington, if truth be told, supping brown sludge with names like Fusty Ferret and Old Speckled Hen. I hate them; but not as much as I chuffing-well despise the screws who'd use me for their sport.

'Appen I don't know how the wager was made. Or why. I don't even care. All I know is I'm sitting here in this tiny bar, my lot on one side and the Hoorays on t'other. The pints are lined up, seven golden lagers for me, seven pints of what looks like raw sewage for the nonce in the tweed.

I'll make no friends for what I'm about to do, not screws nor cons, but that's no' the point. Way I see it is this; when you look in the mirror you want a lion staring back, not a snake.

Been training for months for tonight's showdown. Down the local working men's club  – always with a screw in tow. I'm in peak form for tonight's lickle farce, so when t' bell sounds for the off, I'm like a chuffing steam train.

Head back, two pints down within the first fifteen seconds. No problem. I'm racing.

By the end of pint four, t'other bloke's already a pint behind. He's just finished number three. As I drain number six, the gap is a pint and a half.

I can see t'other man struggling and my lot are barking like bloodhounds on the trail of one of t'other lots' flaming foxes. Victory is in sight, the daft bleeders can taste it, screaming like maniacs they are.

The finish line's no end though. Even though baying crowds might be cheering themselves daft. 

So I do it. Put my plan into action. With the goal in sight, I stop. Just like that.

Slowly, deliberately, I place the remains of my lager on't mat on't table. Can't be more than quarter of a pint left in t' glass. I glance around - deadpan. There's panic on the faces of my team. "C'mon lad," they're yelling, "git it down thee," and, "what's t'matter lad?"

T'other bloke had long given up hope, but now he sees possibility. A wounded zebra wi' one kick left. His team is braying like an 'erd of zebras too, a mass of white teeth, tweed and Islington swagger. He's onto pint six, which he downs steadily. I sit there like a statue, wallowing in defiance.

My lot have clocked the game by now and they're silent. Eee by gum, the chief is mad. He stares at me like he'd slip poison in my drink. Begger all point though; I'll not sup another drop in 'ere.

The Hooray is on t'pint seven. Slowly but surely he downs it, watching me from t' corner of his eye, waiting for a move. It's a move that never comes. As he overtakes, the noise reaches fever pitch. I smirk as the last dregs of foul, brown water drain from his glass into that privileged stomach.

He slams the empty glass onto the table. Triumphant!

I lose.

Not true, of course. There'll be hell to pay when we get back to borstal, but I don't care. Like I said, I'm no bleeder's chuffin' fool.

End of story.

Colin Smith's rating for the Wenlock – 2 / 10

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