Perils Of The Beer Goggles

In 1987 I was seventeen years old and was, as anyone who has read any of my previous tales, no stranger to a night on the town. This was all well and good, with no harm in it for anyone, my own livers health aside. At this point in time I still played quite a lot of football which I enjoyed immensely and served many purposes, firstly it kept me fit as we trained two nights a week and played a match every Sunday. Secondly it also allowed you to get stuck in to the opposition without fear that the rozzers would come along and cart you off to chokey for common assault. Lastly it also ensured that whenever you fancied a good drinking session, which I often did, then you had no shortage of willing teammates to accompany you on a tour of the town’s public houses and or nightclubs.1

All in all an excellent state of affairs for a young chap with a healthy thirst and a predisposition for the pursuit of the fairer sex.2

Enter in to the tale one Gary Taggart a.k.a. Big Gar. Big Gar’s nickname came from the fact that he was a year older than the rest of us, was built like a brick shithouse and had a voice like a tuned up foghorn. He played in the centre of midfield and for reasons clearly apparent to all was our team captain. All things considered a wise choice, as you would far rather have him as an ally than an adversary when the shit hit the fan and as is the nature of the game, the shit hit the fan on an almost weekly basis during the playing season.3

Now don’t get me wrong, Big Gar was and indeed still is a cracking chap, with a great sense of humour and a capacity for alcohol to match his hulking frame. There was however one subject about which he was less than humorous, that being his younger sister Suzie. I had on more than one occasion heard with my own ears and witnessed with my own eyes the consequences of talking about or even looking at his sister in the wrong way.4

Now I had never as much as laid eyes on Gar’s sister. For my own part I genuinely bore the belief that if she looked anything like her older sibling, I would not be inclined to want to look at her, never mind try and get my hands up her jumper, even if the beer goggles were in the “On” position.5

Scene set?6

Job done?7

Excellent, although I think you can probably guess where this one is heading and for once you will be relieved to hear, you would be wrong.8

It all started out innocently enough, just another en mass team piss up, post another resounding one- one draw, at the arse end of September and then it happened.9

“Can I by you a drink?” A young female voice said from over my left shoulder. I spun round on my barstool and saw what could only be described as a very attractive black haired young lady, wearing a very tight fitting red t-shirt and sporting a smile to which the only response any heterosexual male could give was “Yes!”10

“Yes, I’ll have a vodka and coke, thanks very much!” I said feeling very pleased with myself. She ordered the drinks and I shot off to the toilets to stain my onions and to try and think of witty things to say upon my return. 11

Just then the toilet door opened and in walked Big Gar. “Alright Gar?” I said as he stood at the urinal next to me. “I’m alright!” Big Gar snarled “The question is, will you be when I drag you out in to the car park and kick the shit out of you!” He continued.12

Oh spoons, the penny dropped as this dark haired temptress was none other than the aforementioned Suzie.13

“Listen Gar!” I said trying to talk my way out of a pasting. “I had no idea that was your sister; she only offered to buy me a drink. I’ll buy her one back and then that will be that!” I said trying to reassure him. “It better fucking had be! I’ll be fucking watching!” He growled as he left the gents.14

I washed my hands, franticly trying to think of a way to let her know, without actually telling her, that her brother would in all likelihood kill me to death if I even talked to her for to long. I returned, downed my drink, made some inane chit chat, bought her a drink and pissed off home as quickly as possible.15

I was lying on the couch after dinner later that evening watching some crap or another on T.V. when the phone rang. My mother answered it and handed the receiver to me saying and I quote “It’s some girl for you!”16

Once again, oh spoons, I took the phone and fiend a cheery “Hello.”17

The voice on the other end spoke and my worst fears were realised. “Hi.” The voice said “It’s Suzie. I was just wondering what you were doing tonight? Do you want to go to a party, one of my friends parents are on holiday and a few of us are going round for a drink. Do you want to come?”18

Now undoubtedly I would, if the circumstances had been different, jump at the opportunity of a few drinks and a drunken fumble. However, I like being alive and it was a situation I wished to continue. “Sorry Suzie I can’t, I have to be up really early for work and I am knackered after the match.” I said lamely trying to fob her off. “No problem, I’ll see you after football next Sunday.” She said.19

After football next Sunday, no you fucking wont, I thought to myself as I contemplated retiring from the game.20

10pm that night and the phone rang again. Guess who? Yes that’s right, it was my bumpy jumpered stalker and this time she was the worst for drink. “Are you going to come round here. Or what?” She drunkenly roared. I hung up the phone and went and hid in my bedroom.21

The following week at work was a nightmare; she was outside the gate at lunch time and again at knocking off time. The phone calls in the evening were relentless and I even received through the post a hand written note, within which she went in to all the ghastly details of what this nymphomaniac would like to do to me.22

I made it through the week and decided a celebratory drink was in order, so off to a pub at the far end of town we went. The drink flowed and at about 8pm I staggered the half mile or so home. On entering the kitchen, sat sitting there with a cup of coffee in hand, like butter would not melt in her mouth and with my mother grinning like a Cheshire cat, the shapely Suzie. Top marks to her in the relentless pursuit department and a resounding grade “F” with knobs on to me for not making the situation clear to her.23

I made polite conversation and after half an hour or so managed to negate the situation and got her out of the house and in to a taxi home. After she had left I told my mother the whole tale, to which my mother burst out laughing and I quote “Well, I suppose you know best!”24

I had planned, as was my usual routine of a Friday night, on a few drinks down my favourite pub, however I knew she would be there, lurking, like a dreadful lurky thing and her much larger brother would then plaster me all over the car park.25

Just then the phone rang again. Salvation, Oss’s folks were out for the evening and he was having a piss up round at his house while they were out. A quick shower and I was suited, booted, slamming down vodka and cokes in Oss’s front room and recanting my tale of woe to my chums.26

Surprise, surprise, they were not in the least bit sympathetic, not that I should have been shocked by that and what’s more, had taken to calling her, again I quote from a rat arsed Nimble “Suzie The Sex Hunter!”27

The beer goggles most definitely in the “On” position and with the fabled Dutch courage once again coursing through my veins. Off to our favourite public house we went. On opening the front door of Oss’s parents house we discovered it was hosing it down with rain, so the bar being about a mile away taxis were called. The taxi I was in pulled in, as was the usual practise, to the rear car park of the Southern View Hotel. As the cars headlights illuminated the red brick wall at the far end, there, with her tongue rammed down some unfortunate biker type chappys throat, one Suzie Taggart.28

Cheers went up in the taxi and I could feel the stress of the last six days draining from my body. We ran the twenty feet or so from the taxi, through the downpour and into the sanctuary of the public bar. 29

Big Gar was in his usual spot in a booth at the corner of the lounge; he stood up and walked menacingly towards me. “Have you been shagging my sister!” he snarled at me.30

As was his way, being chief diplomat, Knubnutts professed an answer for me. “Gar!” He shouted. “She’s in the car park with some greasy biker as we speak!” Well done Knumbnutts for once again showing all the tact and diplomacy of a house brick.31

Big Gar true to form dashed out in to the soggy darkness and there then proceeded to be the best pub car park fight any of us had ever seen.32

Needles to say P.C. Mutcheson and his squad of likeminded humourless bastards did not share our enthusiasm for this display of pub pugilism and hauled them both off to cool their heels overnight at Her Majesties pleasure.33

Thank the lord I had for once managed to not give in to the ways of the fairer sex, otherwise the car park would have been decorated in the seven shades of shit, he had intimated he would kick out of me.34