March Hare (Winchester)

Thumper (Bambi)

Pubs; they’re an imbibers’ foreign legion, if only for an evening. The places binge drinkers come to forget the very bad things that life throws up, sometimes of their own making.

Usually, I totally subscribe to this view; I have plenty of experience. But, in the March Hare tonight, the amber necter ain’t working its forgetful magic.

I should be feeling as ‘top’ as the dash of lemonade in my pint, my problem relegated to my subconscious. After all, I’m coming to the dregs of my seventh Fosters-top.

But the thing I’m trying to forget, well it’s such a choker that even pint seven is going down like a tin of treacle. I just can’t forget.

I suppose this must be the drinkers’ equivalent of what marathon runners call ‘a bad one’; And although I don’t intend to take a crap by the side of the road, I’m still wobbling up my own street of self-loathing.

Plus, my tick – that cursed involuntary foot spasm – is working overtime, conspiring to add physical thunder to this shower of inner loathing. I’m sitting on a stool, banging the bar like a Phil Collins intro.

The locals are staring at me too - accusing; they can sense my crime I’m sure.

Get to the point Thumper? OK, I will. Me and that fellow Iscariot, we got something in common.

* breathes deeply *

I betrayed the deer.

* takes final sip, shakes his rabbit head and beckons to the barman *

“Fosters-top over here please guvnor….. nah, actually, easy on the top. I’ll take it straight this time.”

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, betrayal. It all started with a man bearing gifts, like 30 pieces of orange.

When he approached me I could see evil in his 1,000 yard-stare. I knew too; that was no snooker cue in his long thin bag.

And yet, what he held in his other hand, it was pure heroin to a slightly disabled rabbit. In return for “a little information about the deer”, he offered me a pack of carrots so orange, so pert, and so 'from Waitrose', I just couldn’t resist…….ooooohhhh,…..if you coulda just seen them ……..

* Thumper drifts off for a second *

I swear at the time, I didn’t put two-and-two together.

A couple of weeks earlier though, Bambi warned me about this guy - “a deer hunter”, he’d said, tracking him through the parks of West London. My friend was jittery as hell; told me he was thinking about leaving London altogether, relocating to the sticks till the heat died down. Winchester, he said, was the sort of place a deer could blend in with other funny looking animals.

I took it with a pinch of salt; Paranoia was always a big problem after the business with his mum. I’d heard it all before, but this time he was serious. Next day he’d gone.

As well as losing my mate, this was a bit of a practical problem for me. See, Bambi helped me with my shopping ‘cause I was still battling with the council over my disabled badge (‘leg tick’ should be a registered disability; the Porsche Cayenne is a nightmare to park at Asda)

So when I met the stranger with the shooter and the carrots, I was hungry and I sang like a canary. Took me about 30 seconds to spill the beans: “Gone to Winchester mate; left a couple of days ago”. Then another two minutes to quaff the heavenly carrots.

Deep down, I knew I’d done wrong. That night, I awoke bolt upright, cold sweat pouring from my floppy ears. My subconscious was screaming; “you sent a madman to Winchester to take out your best mate.”

Cutting a long story short, I rushed to the sticks the next morning. I searched and searched - fields, pubs, Marwell petting zoo – you name it. But to no end. Eventually, exhausted, I gave up.

Tonight’s my last night in town and I’ve taken the bus and my final thirty quid to Harestock, intent on drowning my sorrows; trying to forget my heinous crime.

Trouble is, I really should’ve gone somewhere more anonymous – maybe in the centre of town. Harestock is a real family area - and the March Hare has a family feel to it. Anonymous it ain’t.

There’s lots of army live on the estate served by the March Hare too; which means this is the sort of pub where loyalty, friendship and family come first. It’s a pub where your mates are important and you’re England till you die. None of these blokes would stitch up their best mate for a bunch of carrots. I can see it in their eyes.

If they knew what I’d done, I’m quite sure I’d be in the bogs, getting beaten senseless with my own twitchy leg.

Hmm, thinking about it; maybe I should tell someone? If they did a decent enough job, that disabled badge could be in the bag. If I could park the Cayenne at the entrance to Asda, it’d all have been worth it.

Cheers!

Thumper’s rating for the March Hare – 8 / 10

Sputnikski 

 Click here to find out what happened to Bambi

What about the deer hunter? Did he slot the venison?

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