Audley (Mayfair)

Captain Quint (Jaws)

Goddamn sharks. They’re everywhere in this town.

Let me tell ya what happened to me last week. Had a plumber round to sort out my drains. Su-nuff-abitch had cancelled twice on me already.

He finally turned up (two hours late), then screwed me for 80 notes on the call-out; then stiffed me for another 75.

Wanna know what for? I’ll tell ya. For pouring a bottle of Mr Muscle down the plug-hole, that’s what for.

Last month, it was British Gas reeling me in, hook, line and sinker. ‘Gotta have a Power Flush to clear the scum from the central heating, Mr Captain Quint’, they said. What the hell else could I do? I’m no Goddamn heating engineer.

One high-pressure hose job later and I’m another five hundred lighter. Nice town this.

Worst of all happened yesterday. I’m so angry I feel like taking up smoking again. But, I’ve come to The Audley to get loaded instead.

After reading this story you might think I asked for trouble. Or that trouble invariably finds me. Well maybe that’s true. I’d vowed never to get another tattoo, after that business with The Indianapolis, the bomb and the shark-soup party.

But I felt like I deserved some memento of my tussle with that great white off Amity. I know the Goddamn media cast shark as victor, but that ain’t the truth. Ignore the photo up there - and the video footage you might have seen; it’s misleading. I got the upper hand shortly after ol’ Jaws clamped his teeth around my torso.

They should’ve given me a medal for coming out on top. But that damn-fool chief won the plaudits. Figured if no one else would do it, I’d just have to reward myself.

“Paint me somethin’ in honour of my hug with the biggest Goddamn white shark ever,” I’d said as I entered Painless Pete’s tattoo place on the Uxbridge Road. “Oh, and be creative.”

“Biggest white shark ever?” the guy replied getting out his needle and paints. “No problem. I know exactly what you mean chief.”

“Captain!”, I corrected him.

He didn’t know what I meant. Maybe something get lost in translation. Perhaps he didn’t recognise me or possibly it was the goddamn English sense of humour.

Wanna know what multi-colour defilement I ended up with, all over my back?

Some old cockney wide-boy, wearing a sheepskin, standing next to an ancient Jag-waar.

To add insult to injury, and from kidney to kidney, I’m saddled with a message I don’t even understand:

'Arthur Daley, a little dodgy maybe, but underneath he’s alright.'

Boy it hurts bad (in more ways than one). And the su-nuff-abitch still charged me £650 even though I complained to the boss. See what I mean; sharks. Can’t move for the critters in London.

Now you understand why I’m drinking in The Audley. I don't want no mates, there's too many captains on this island. So I’m solo, propping up the bar.

I’ve been watching the Eastern-European barmaid for two hours now. She’s cute, but she’s got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. And she has city hands. (Been countin' money all her life, no doubt).

When she comes at me, she doesn’t seem to be living. I ask for another Foster’s top. She serves me without emotion. Another three quid. Another pint of fizzy urine, with a dash of lemonade. More London sharkery, but I’ve drunk worse – and paid more.

I look around the pub. It’s red everywhere. Red ceiling, red drapes, red leather sofas and reds serving behind the bar.

Then the flashbacks start. That terrible high-pitched screamin'. The ocean turns red, and despite all the poundin' and the hollerin', they come in and they... rip you to pieces.

They come in and they rip you to pieces?.....hmmmm.

Not a bad goddamn metaphor for London life.

Captain Quint’s rating for the Audley - 7 / 10

Sputnikski

• View by pub
• View by reviewer
• View by place

• Letting yourself down

  A quick note on the ‘sensitive’ issue of letting oneself down when boozing. We’ve all done it after a few too many light ales. And we’ve all had to deal with the messy consequences… So the question is, should all … Continue reading →