Steve checked through his pockets again. Surely this time he’d find something extra, surely he’d made a mistake the first three times he’d looked.
Clumsily Steven Michael Brennon slumped against the wall and spread the contents of his pockets out on the floor and slowly made his fourth re count. This time he would find the hidden fiver and everything would be fine, this time it would all work out.
The night had gone badly from the start and he knew that he really should have cut his losses and given up hours ago, but it had all made so much sense at the time and now he was faced with the biggest most pressured decision he had ever had to make and he wasn’t sure what he would do. How on Earth was he going to get out of this mess?
His three mates had been on good form and Steven had laughed as the first three pubs on the route had seen them telling jokes and playing the fool as they joined in a line and ‘rowed’ backwards to the bar in celebration of the recent Olympic victory for Sir Steven Redgrave. Their Olympic themed night had continued and Steve’s lycra shorts with the banana securely taped in place had been a huge hit. Yet again Steve was about to be hit by the first bump of the night though as they left The Surrey Arms and headed for the posh bar.
No one knew why the posh bar had found its way onto their pub route, as it was so different to their normal haunts. The fact was that it was always populated by a higher class of ‘bird’ than they generally found in the rest of Portsmouth and so this was reason enough. However it was small and the atmosphere stifled and the posh women weren’t interested unless you were a Harrier pilot. Many attempts to convince them of Steve’s flying prowess had all fallen the same way as they instantly saw him for the electrician that he so clearly was. None the less one quick pint in the posh bar lifted the class of the evening to a higher level and left the lads feeling important for a short space of time. The drawback to this was the cost. A round in here cost a fortune and yet again Steve had mis-timed things and failed to get the round in Wetherspoons. Hence he now returned from the bar with three fancy bottles of a lager that he couldn’t even pronounce having spent twice as much as Smudger had on the last round.
Next had been the Mucky Duck or White Swan as the sign above the door insisted and things livened up again. It was a Thursday night and the pub was packed with half the Navy. Walking through the door Steve was immediately passed by a line of 12 men that he didn’t know who were rowing their way around the bar so he joined on the back and used it to help push his way through the crowds until he spotted a gap near the bar and dived for it. Smudger, Dolly and the aptly named Donkey all jumped off the line behind him and high fived their intelligence as Donkey got the round in record time for such a packed venue.
Steve deflated a little as Donkey turned round and passed out the pints of Fosters followed by tequila. Steve smiled carefully, not wanting to show any weakness to his mates, but inside he died a little as he saw a vision of how the rest of the night was going to go; he had been here all too often.
The night continued with each round being accompanied by a shot each of which being toasted to a different sporting hero. Each visit to the toilet taking longer as the vague faces that he recognised en route became friendlier and friendlier. Funny how people you barely talk too on the ship become your long lost favourite brother as the night wears on and you can’t get past them without stopping to hug in a big group and loudly sing along to Vic Reeves Dizzy playing in the background. Life is funny like that.
As the bells sounded for closing time Redders closed his eyes and waited for the shout that he was dreading but knew that it would come. To be honest for once he wasn’t that bothered as he was really quite excited about the fact that he had finally earned a nickname. Getting called Redders after Steve Redgrave was genius, and he had barely been able to conceal his delight when Dolly coined it earlier. Steve had been on the ship 8 months and still was being called by his name – a horrendous snub generally saved for the least popular on board. Now though Steve would be Redders for ever, but only if this night becomes legendary enough for people to talk about even after the upcoming weekend break.
Redders desperately wanted to get something to eat and return to his bed, but even more desperately wanted to be finally accepted in the group and getting a nickname was vital. In the end it was Smudger who finished off the last three quarters of his pint in one easy flow, belched loudly and declared that he knew a little Mexican place on the Southsea seafront that we should try and then laughed at himself as he explained this ancient and predictable joke by pronouncing Joanna’s as Hoanna’s. Jo’s was a seedy club that was strictly used by servicemen and friendly ladies. The carpet was sticky and the beer was awful, but you could get away with acting like an idiot and didn’t have to put too much effort in to succeed. The music would vary from the cheesy to the hard rock but it never mattered because the dance floor was always full of drunken men hugged together in gleeful embrace, pints of watered down lager held aloft and singing crude versions of the song loudly.
As usual the boys all cheered at the thought of getting a taxi to Jo’s instead of walking across the road to the local club which was better by miles but where you had to act a little less military. Redders’ shoulders sagged a little as he realised that yet again he had failed to dive in the back quickly enough and so had to take up the paying seat at the front. “Naval School of Dancing please” Donkey shouted from the back and everyone cheered at the hilarity of the gag, especially the driver who couldn’t believe how amusing it was. The driver knew where to go, they always did and he knew how to tap in an extra pound onto the meter too.
Steve paid the taxi fare but it was Redders who bounded up the stairs declaring that he was having first shout at the grab a minger trophy, the boys cheered. Several lagers and a couple of Rum’s went down – no one likes Rum, Steve mused to himself so why do we keep ordering it when we get here? Some very bad dancing to Dizzy yet again because it’s a timeless song that will get any sailor onto the dance floor and Redders found himself being reminded of the great Naval myth – you can’t not pull in Joanna’s. Of course this is rubbish especially when your chat up technique consists of pointing to the banana shape in your lycra shorts, thrusting back and forth shouting “this could be your lucky night!” the boys had loved that one and it had been enough to seal his nickname for ever but of course had resulted simply in a face full of cheap vodka.
And so this brings Redders back to Steve as his mates had long since disappeared in the way that best mates do when they have had a few. Smudger had pulled Fat Pat and the other two had been thrown out after squaring up to the submariners about their hygiene problems again. Steve sat dizzily pondering the most difficult decision he had ever faced.
Did he spend his last £4 on a kebab or a taxi?
What a nightmare, it would be over two miles to walk back to his ship, but if he got a taxi then he would be starving and finishing the night without a Kebab would be awful.
After agonising for ten full minutes Redders stood up, laughed and walked into the Kebab House, this is what legends are made of and the tale of Olympic night and the two hours that it took Redders to walk back to the dockyard with a kebab and a banana pouch was retold in countless bars around the world for ever more.
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