Читать книгу A Fucked Up Life in Books - Литагент HarperCollins USD, J. F. C. Harrison, Professor J. D. Scoffbowl - Страница 18

When I was in sixth form a friend and I used to spend Thursday mornings in the city centre in our local Wetherspoons pub. What we’d do is go into school, register, and then get the bus into town to spend the first two free periods in the pub. At the pub we’d each get a massive fry up and a pint, and then sit quietly and read our books together over another pint.

On this occasion we were both reading The Caucasian Chalk Circle for part of one of our English modules. The pub was loud and busy because it was right next door to the city centre college, and all of those college students had more or less the same brilliant Thursday morning plans as us.

I wasn’t 18 yet, and so I was drinking illegally. So was my friend. This wasn’t a problem in this pub. It was back in the day before everything got really strict and you had to have fifteen forms of ID just to get into the pub, and then hand over said ID again at the bar along with something important and sentimental to you in order to get a sniff of a Bacardi Breezer.

So we were there. In the pub. Reading a play and talking about what a fucking great guy Brecht was when I needed to go for a piss. Me and this girl were not the kinds to go to the toilet in pairs, so while she waited at our table I wandered up the stairs to the loo.

The toilet had six cubicles. Let’s name them, from right to left, 1-6. 2, 3, 5 and 6 were taken, so I went into 4.

I pulled down my pants and did a massive piss. I’m not sure how much description you need here, but I was a bit wobbly from the beer and I wanted to be in and out of there as quickly as possible. Wetherspoons toilets are not a great place to be. I wiped, pulled up my pants, flushed, unlocked the doors and went over to the sinks, which were facing the toilets. I turned on the tap and heard coming from one of the cubicles:

‘OH MY GOD HE’S GOT A MIRROR! OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OHMYGOD!’

I turned around as the door to cubicle 3 flew open and a man in a long grey coat rushed out with his head down. As he was at the door the door of cubicle 2 flew open and a girl ran out with her shirt all untucked and her flies open. She turned to me.

‘THAT FUCKING PERVERT CUNT WAS WATCHING ME PISS WITH A MIRROR! THAT FUCKING CUNT!’

‘Shit, man,’ I said, ‘That’s bad.’

She huffed and puffed and sorted her shirt and flies out and stormed out. I followed her downstairs where she left the pub immediately and I went back to sit with my friend.

I was telling my friend what had happened when two policemen came over to our table.

‘What are you doing here, ladies?’

Shit. They know we’re underage. They’re definitely going to put us both in prison.

‘Err, we’re at the college studying English …’ I held up our books. ‘And we are here for a … meeting.’

‘Have either of you been into the toilet? We’ve had a report of a man hiding in the toilet.’

Thank fuck! I’m not getting arrested! I’m helping to condemn the filth, like a proper fucking brilliant hero.

And so I told the policeman about what had happened in the toilet. I fabricated a brilliant description of the man because I was 17 and high on power and then they thanked us and we left.

We were late back to school though, and a bollocking was in the air. Our head of year was waiting at the fucking gate for us, the jobsworthy cunt, and sniffed our mouths and looked in our eyes and declared us drunk. I tried to tell him that there had been a pervert in the pub toilet but he roared at me for admitting to being in the pub, and they rang my Dad and I got told off when I got home. Unluckily for my mate, her Dad was the head of drama so she had the pleasure of being bollocked in front of the entire school. She couldn’t get a fucking word in.

I don’t know if that man was watching me piss. At the time I didn’t care. I’m not sure I even care now. I just hope that some poor cunt didn’t get arrested based on my ropey description of a tall man (6’2") in a long grey coat with a pointy beard, thin moustache and cold dead, eyes. I wonder if the police even used that description at all.