Harvey Wallbanger

Harvey Wallbanger

My friends some of whom are former classmates form primary school are barring the odd exception to the rule unmarried. You must understand it is not that they are good with colours, light on their loafers or drop anchor in Poo Bay. It is just that with the advances in medical science over the past 25 or so years the need for getting spliced has lessened in comparison to the days of our parents and grand parents. When without the advent of the infamous shotgun wedding the streets would have been awash with the bastardised offspring of many a late night fumble.

Nowadays only the incredibly naïve, the deeply religious or the down right stupid fall foul of not having “Something for the weekend” or the necessary pharmaceutical precautions in place. As after all every chap reading this knows that at the onset of the vinegar strokes all common sense and good intentions goes out of the nearest window.

Enter in to this story my associate Smarty.

Smarty was to put it in the kindest possible terms no oil painting. A huge hulk of a chap, with a mouth of teeth resembling a row of condemned tenements and a profile, which could be best, described as a bulldog chewing on a wasp. A comparison that would be construed these days as putting a positive spin on him. Physical unattractiveness however has never appeared to hold him back in his relentless quest to get his shovel like hands up as many ladies jumpers as possible.

This however would ultimately prove to be his undoing in the lasting commitment to marriage department.

As far as I could ascertain from a recent drunken conversation in a pub, he is currently residing with Mrs. Smarty number 2 and was doing his best at that very moment to get acquainted with Mrs. Smarty number 3.

But alas a chum caught playing away from home by his spouse is definitely a story for another occasion.

Back in 1988 the jammy bugger had managed to talk his way in to the affections and pants of a very, very attractive young lady five years our senior. Due to this remarkable turn of events he was understandably an instant hero and inspiration to us all as he was without question, punching miles and miles above his weight in the good-looking girlfriend stakes.

After a couple months or so of horizontal jogging.

Doom!

She had been to the doctors and was as Smarty put it and I quote him directly “Up the spout!”

Suddenly his bedroom gymnastics, which he had gone to great lengths to describe to us in minute detail, were about to have the direst of consequences. Smarty seemed less than concerned with his plight and was to be honest showing a very cavalier (even for him, the slack bastard) attitude to his pending parental responsibilities.

Swoopster: “What the hell are you going to do? You poor bastard! That’ll teach you to keep it in your pants!”

Smarty: “No, no you chaps have all got it wrong as usual! Not only is she easy on the eye and a tiger between the sheets but her father also owns half of a county in southern England!”

In the lottery that is life Smarty had in essence just become a triple roll over jackpot winner, a kind of footballers wife with the genders reversed.

These events all unfolded in the month of May 1988. Time being a pressing factor in the blushing bride with an enormous and expanding stomach department, a hasty shotgun style wedding was arranged for early July. The whole event was to take place at a posh hotel about fifteen miles from town. Despite the brides families best efforts, Smarty being a good sort of chap had invited all of his chums or as the brides mother called us and I quote: “The great unwashed!” to see the dire deed done.

The wedding day amongst us, 11.00am, suited and booted I set off to meet with the chaps in a pub in the middle of the town for a few liveners prior to the coach pick up and transportation to the location of the ritual sacrifice of our chum. This being the social event of the summer for the small town where we lived, nearly everyone you bumped in to or who drove past you was on their way to and I quote Smarty again “The Wedding! The Fucking Wedding!”

I pushed the bar door open and found the place jam packed full of guests with exactly the same idea as we had, that being to numb the pain of the days proceedings with large quantities of vodka. All of my associates were there including a few banana brained clowns we would have rather been shot of. Talking of banana brained clowns at this point enter in to the tale the chief villain of the piece Allan Boone a.k.a. The Galoot a nickname so apt that all will, through the coarse of events laid out here becomes glaringly obvious.

Allan had also been punching well above his weight in the girlfriend department; alas it could not last as the girl in question soon saw through his boorish ways. Allan is without doubt the most uncouth chap I have ever met, no language is off limits, no matter what the situation and all the tact off a house brick. Needles to say Allan being a real man was not going to let anyone know that he actually was feeling pretty bad about being dumped by his ex. That is he was not going to let anyone know he was upset until the arrival of Mr. Jack Daniels and Mr. Harvey Wallbanger. Who had the combined effect of loosening his famously foul mouth while ensuring he actually managed to lose any of the inhibitions he may have had.

Location: The Snobatorium Hotel public bar.

Time: 1.30pm.

Allan: “Wooooooh! See that bit of stuff behind the bar? If she plays her cards right tonight I’ll sort her out! Give her one! You know! Shag her! Wooooooh!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs so everyone at the entire wedding heard him never mind only our group standing at the bar.

With this outburst the largest barman I have ever seen leaned over the bar at him and said “Hoy! That’s enough of that! She has a terrible temper; if any of us had said anything half as bad we would have been slapped! Behave!” trying to coax a positive response.

Allan: “That’s because you’re not as good-looking as me you ugly bastard!” he shouted while raising a two fingered salute in his direction.

“No more drink for him!” said the barman to the rest of the staff “Not until he’s sobered up! Any more and he’s out!” he continued pointing at us trying to shift responsibility on to us for Allan’s behaviour. Thankfully the wedding ceremony itself was about to take place so at least during the service no more alcohol could be consumed by our arch nemesis.

I do’s were exchanged and everything had passed off without incident despite Allan saying that he was going to shout out that the bride was already married to him. Relieved that he saw some sense and did not pursue his hair brain scheme we all filed back in to the bar, where The Galoot challenged the Swoopster to a contest. To be more specific a Harvey Wallbanger drinking contest.

Oh spoons!

Challenging Swoopster to any kind of drinking game is folly due to his unbelievable super human capacity for alcohol consumption. However challenging him to a contest, which involves vodka, is pure suicide as he was practically weaned on the stuff. Half a dozen Wallbangers each in and The Galoot was last seen unconscious flat on his back, legs akimbo in trap 1 of the gent’s shithouse.

Oss: “Thank fuck for that, at least that’ll keep the mad bastard out of any more trouble, hopefully he’ll sleep it off until it’s time for us to piss off home!”

How ironic a statement that would prove to be in the not to distant future.

The reception was in full swing in the hotels ballroom, where incidentally the bar prices received a massive rise but bonus of bonus’s the room was full of young ladies full of alcohol. Bullet Head our P.E. teacher from secondary school mentioned in another tale would have been proud as White Sergeants were dashed and jigs jigged. All to no avail however as we were definitely not the John Travolta’s of the Scottish country dancing scene and several elderly guests were less than impressed with our overzealous efforts.

“Ladies and gentlemen. The bride and groom shall be leaving from the front door of the hotel in five minutes. If we could all gather outside to wave them off!” smarmed the plums in the mouth accented master of ceremonies.

The hotel’s entrance had a large brass and glass revolving door, with three very wide shallow steps leading up to it from the shingle drive, which was edged by a very low wall of only about 6 to 9 inches in height.

Out of the front door of the hotel we all traipsed where a very large posh shiny black Rolls Royce awaited the happy couple. Out of the hotel came Smarty and Mrs. Smarty part 1, in to the car they went and it began to pull away slowly. I was standing on the driveway next to a chap in full Highland dress when through the revolving door burst Allan a.k.a. The Galoot. Down the steps he sprinted, he attempted to jump over the small wall in an effort to get to the car. Unfortunately his trailing foot got caught up on the wall and he fell headlong at full speed in to and taking out the kilt-wearing chap standing next to me.

The pair of them were sprawling on the drive as the car pulled away.

“Are you alright mate?” said the clearly dazed kilt wearer as he attempted to help Allan to his feet.

Allan: “I’m alright you poof! Have that!” he shouted as he head butted the good Samaritan causing him to drop like a sack of spuds before continuing at top speed after the car drawing gasps of total disbelief from several guests.

Eventually he caught up with the car and began banging upon the roof with his left hand while waving at Smarty with his right. “Smarty! Smarty!” he yelled as the car slowed.

Smarty: “Yeah what do you want?” he replied through the only slightly opened rear window.

Allan “The Galoot” Boone then gave a reply that earned him his reputation as a man with absolutely no self control.

“You shouldn’t have married her Smarty she’s a total tart!” he bellowed.

Everyone could not believe their eyes or indeed there ears at this truly shocking outburst even for someone of Allan’s limited thinking power.

The Rubicon crossed it was time for the best man or in this case Deck to take matters in to his own hands. Kapow! Was the noise as Deck’s fist met with Allan’s face and he crumbled in a drunken stupor at the side of the car.

“You’re a fucking arsehole Allan! You galoot!” shouted Deck in sheer disbelief at what he had just witnessed. Deck must have been truly shocked as under normal circumstances he only utters the most commonly used curses so this was an inspired moment for him.

Allan was then bundled in to a taxi and sent home by the hotels porters, not to be seen by a soul for the next 3 or so months.

When he resurfaced, had he learnt anything from his public humiliation?

Had he fuck!

“Hoy Knumbnutts! That sister of yours has lovely tits!” he shouted across the crowded bar.

Oh spoons! Will he ever learn?