Lads, Legs & Lager : The Verbal Animations of an Ordinary Man

By Roger Bruce

The hilarious antics of a young man and his mates growing up in a typical North London town. Roger P. Bruce side splittingly recreates these precious and hysterical memories and freezes them in time to share with anyone willing to join the wild ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 3, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447683865

Book preview

Chapter 1 - At Last !

Can you believe it? In this day and age, at seventeen I was still a virgin. Most of my friends had got this little manhood issue out of way ages ago [or pretended to]. What was really hard to take though was that I thought I should have been first! After all I was a reasonably good-looking lad and fairly popular, perhaps I was shy... or naive... or both. On reflection I think I was just scared.1974 was a fine year. I started college the previous September with my dad’s words of wisdom still ringing in my ears Get a trade son and found it refreshing, being treated like an adult instead of some naughty kid. The lads decided to book a summer holiday to Weymouth, our first major trip without parents, you know, no rules, no awkward questions, no hiding love bites! And that made it all the more exciting. There were four of us, Billy Adams with his red hair and freckles, he was my cousin and he could kick a football alright but his head was stuffed full of useless information and I was forever stopping him from slapping Clifford. Clifford Bayliss who was a mean looking kid with a wide arse and a knack for saying the worst possible thing at the worst possible time. If you had a new football, he had twenty of them, and if you got a new bike his mum would get him one twice as shiny! Micky Willis who had a black belt in Origami, no it really was karate and all the conversational skills of a dead parrot and yours truly Mr Cool. Billy had come to stay with us for a few weeks when his mother got sick but he ended up living with my family for the next 15 years. That was great for me, as both my brother and sister had married; leaving home by the time I was ten. So Billy was like a brother and we became very close. The other two lads were kids we grew up with and kicked a ball with after school on the same housing estate, so we all knew each other very well. I think we all punched each other at least once while we were kids yes we were all good mates.

We were heading off to Weymouth, in sunny Dorset on the south sandy coast of England. It is a bustling seaside resort with the tantalising aroma of chips and candy floss and always very busy. We booked in to a picturesque little hotel called Harbour Lights a typical and very English B & B, that is except for the bangalow palm tree on the front lawn, and we could actually afford the very modest 45 quid a week. Not bad considering that they were throwing in our dinner every night. We were very lucky to get in really, I don’t think they usually took groups of single men, can’t imagine why, I just scribbled four adults on the booking form and from the initial shock and fear expressed on the poor landlady’s face I don’t think she was too keen. Anyway we had planned to travel down to the West Coast by bus, leaving from Victoria coach station in London. I still remember the excited buzz that surrounded the bus station, the smell of the diesel, the power of roaring engines and the queues of impatient passengers longing for departure.

Inspectors dressed in long black coats with peaked caps like army officers, clicked their heels and directed herds of people and buses to their destinations. Suddenly one of these same inspectors yelled out, Passengers for Weymouth proceed to bus terminal 24 through his cupped hands and then all hell broke loose. It seemed as if half of the people in the bus garage were going to Weymouth, passengers with outrageous piles of luggage, bewildered pets and whining children charged towards the bus like a herd of stampeding wildebeest. In fact I had only ever seen one other sight like this; as a child I was dragged very unwillingly to a rummage sale with my mother. I was about six years old and I remember seeing little old ladies charging like prop forwards demolishing everything in their path, just to get their hands on some crummy old coat for less than 50p. I think I knew then, never, to underestimate the power of a woman. Passengers were swallowed up through the doors of the bus like fluid pouring into a funnel. Full Up shouted an inspector, strategically placing himself between the doors of the bus and the remaining passengers. We stood there feeling pretty pissed off, They must have over booked, said Billy. I thought, This is a good start, what the hell happens now? Just then the public address system kicked in with one of those cheesy glockenspiel tunes followed by some dude with a bad cold telling all remaining passengers to proceed to terminal 30, where two more buses had been arranged to accommodate the remainder of us who were busting to travel.

Right said Cliff, let’s bloody well make sure we get on this time. We grabbed our gear and elbowed our way on. It wasn’t the QE2 but at least we were on our way. Cliff had sat with Billy so I jumped in beside Micky. I stared out of the window at the depressing, dull grey sight, which was the London I knew and not the one in the travel brochures. What a dump, I thought; I hope I don’t have to spend the rest of my life here. As it turned out I didn’t but that was a long way in the future. With a roar and the hissing of air brakes we turned our back on The Smoke and headed south to the sun. It’s easy to see why but my thoughts were turning to sun, sea, sand and totti. That was our word for birds, chicks, crumpet, you know, girls. Stupid word really, but it did entertain us when in company we could say something like, Look at the jugs on the totti, and only we would understand. The journey took about four hours, mostly spent with a boring magazine and an exploding bladder. It seemed like eight being sat beside Micky, he was a quiet bloke to say the least. Don’t get me wrong, he was a really good mate but he was not the best when it came to conversation. Sometimes you wouldn’t know he was with you until he farted or it was your turn to buy the drinks only to find that he’s in your round. On the other hand you could always rely on Micky, like an outstretched hand pulling you out of some dirty river, whatever it was or however bloody inconvenient it may be, you always knew that he’d help you.