Confessions of a Travelling Salesman

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‘I could do with some music, dear,’ she says. ‘Go and put on something soft and smoochie.’ She certainly spells it out, doesn’t she? I nip over to the jukebox and when I get back Mountjoy is sprawled across the bar with his head on his hands, snoring loudly.

‘No stamina,’ says R.T., looking down at him as if he is a panting retriever. ‘Ah, well. Cheerio!’ He raises his glass and I am forced to take another swig at my brandy and ginger. Christ! But that drink never seems to disappear. It is amazing how they don’t when you have had enough, isn’t it?

Mabel is clearing up behind the bar and it is clearly only a matter of time before R.T. pushes off and leaves the field to me. I watch Mabel bend over to tuck away some empties and practically cream my jeans. The line of her panties shows through her skirt and I can see the shadow of her black bra through her white nylon blouse. It is wicked! Wicked!!

I take another hefty swig to steady my nerves and suddenly feel a strange deadening sensation spreading through my limbs. Not the dreaded brewer’s droop! Not now! After all I have been through, all the ackers I have laid out!

Mabel reaches up to start pulling down the shutters and I rise to my feet to help her and get a better view of her Bristols. At least I try to rise to my feet For some strange reason I only succeed in sliding off my stool and sitting on the floor. This is ridiculous! I claw at the edge of the bar and my legs buckle again.

‘Come on, old chap, give me your arm. That’s right. There we are!’ R.T. is pulling me to my feet and before me I can see the last shutter coming down.

‘I don’t know what –’ I begin, but R.T. is swift to soothe.

‘Had a drop too much I expect, old boy. It happens to all of us. Give me a hand, will you Mabel?’

For a moment my spirits rise as every boy’s do-it-yourself action woman kit snuggles under my arm pit, but in my heart of hearts I know I am doomed. I must be pissed out of my mind. The tragedy of it! The complete and utter waste! Leaving Mountjoy still snoring on the bar, R.T. and Mabel guide my faltering footsteps down the corridor that leads to my room. With every step, I pray that I will begin to wake up, but I only get sleepier. By the time they steer me through the door I am practically out on my feet. I collapse on the bed and my eyelids slam shut like the cover of a night deposit box. The silence that follows unnerves me so I open them again. Standing in the doorway are Ragged Tash and Mabel. They are embracing. Not so much embracing as darn near eating each other.

‘Come on,’ I hear Mabel panting, ‘I can’t wait much longer.’ She dives onto his mouth again.

‘Alright, old girl,’ says R.T., giving one of her breasts a tweak, ‘anything you say.’

The door closes on my sobs.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning I wake up with a mouth like the inside of a yak’s carpet slippers and it occurs to me before the first ray of sunshine has penetrated my peepers that I have been well and truly nobbled. Mabel not only spiked Mountjoy’s drink but mine as well. The evil baggage only sent me over to the jukebox so she could do the dirty on me while my back was turned. The distress this realisation causes me is only matched by my awareness of the full implications. Mabel presumably fancied the stupid old publishing git to yours truly. What a carve up! She must be round the twist. I have heard of women preferring an older man, but this is ridiculous. Even ‘Homage to Brylcreem’ would have been better than that.