Circa 1989/90 ish I always prepared for a night out by getting a £50 note from the bank. Don’t ask me why in the days of only £1.08 a cider! A few of us would then meet for steak & chips in The Plough Huddlesford about 5pm then off into Lichfield and the Kings Head for 6.30pm. Far too early as no one else started to filter in until about 8pm but you know that panic you get when you think you wont get drunk enough if you’re not out early! Ridiculous really considering I was 5 parts pissed after a pint!
One such evening was powered by 'K' cider and resulted in me being propped up by the bar for last orders when my 'K' addled brain received a moment of inspiration. Note to self: what followed was far from inspired. 'We need vodka and lime' I declared to myself as much as anyone else. Only Pez seemed to agree that this was a good idea and we downed a vodka and lime each and ordered a second. With the realisation that the bar was moments from calling time we combined the shrapnel in our pockets which added up to 22 vodka and limes. We ordered them all and lined them up. The original vodka and lime had turned into 13 and a race. Pez had a much greater drinking capacity than me assisted by his ability to throw up after 10 pints of Guinness to make way for more. He was 6ft 5" and could have handled himself had his evening taken the turn mine did!
I finished the race but lost handsomely by about 4. The giant cigars we had purchased to round off the night were making me decidedly unwell (the K and vodka and lime may have contributed). I was kicked out the Kings Head about midnight and fresh air legs struck. I sat down for about an hour on the window sill of the Eastern Eye (I think) whilst drivvling on to some poor unfortunate about some shit. In my head I think I was chatting her up - in reality I was being a nob. She left and I think I had a little snooze as was often the case! A passing police officer suggested I wasn’t able to sleep there all night and suggested I move on – it wasn’t the last time that night I had a chat with the police!
I moved on but it wasn’t easy. Neither leg was receiving messages from my brain in any kind of structured manner that could assist me with walking forwards and in a straight line. It took an age but I managed the 500 yds past Samuels and through the market square. As I approached MacDonalds a kindly citizen from somewhere behind me reminded me ‘its shut you wanker, its shut’. I assume said good citizen was simply reminding me that at about 2am MacDonalds was closed. Said good citizen was a pissed up chav too young to get hammered legally and so had done so drinking Breaker, or a similarly low priced high strength lager purchasable from a less than scrupulous off licence owner, whilst sat with his mates in the square.
I could not utter a remotely coherant word at this point and so I relayed my gratitude by waiving at him in a way that suggested he had a small penis and spent a lot of time playing with it. I carried on my way blissfully unaware of the upset I had caused and the aggression I was about to endure. I made it past the Pig & Truffle by a few yards when I received a tap on the shoulder, I hadn't fully turned around when said good citizen, backed by his spotty oik mate, demonstrated his displeasure with my wave by punching me very very hard in the face and my already uncooperative legs needed no further encouragement to give way. As I tried to be less Bambi I was hit again…and again…and again and quite a few time more.
I remember weirdly noticing that I had been pushed back against a wooden door and thinking how uncomfortable it would be to get a splinter off it. I think I then passed out. When I came round the loss of my two upper front teeth was immediately noticeable as my tongue kept falling out of the front of my mouth much as does that of a sleeping puppy.....only much less cute. The numbness and swelling in my face didn’t help. Eventually I managed to stand only to be overwhelmingly annoyed that my 'Lichfield Lads and Lasses' T shirt was no longer its customary white (with added cider and cigar stains) but was instead trainer scuff black and blood red!
Fortunately, through my one yet to fully close up eye, I spotted two police officers approaching from the direction of Greenhill chippie. As I staggered towards them, my brain slowly trying to calculate how to produce speech but before any remotely coherant utterance was produced, one officer remarked "I think you better get yourself off son before you get nicked!" A strange remark considering the circumstances. With hindsight I took him to mean that I move on rather than literally get myself off which would, of course, have been highly inappropriate. Not to mention the fact that I wasn't really in the mood.
Unfortunately, because mass produced and available mobile phones hadnt been invented and by the early hours of any weekend morning I would never have a penny left, the chances of contacting my mates for assistance was nil. Although on the plus side I avoided being the main character in a YouTube 12,365 views for a happy slapping type production. It is now, some 30 years or so on, a bit blurry from here as I confuse the aftermath a little with the Slippery on the Dancefloor incident, but I do clearly recall several friends finding me in the Graveyard, opposite where Tesco’s is now, having a nap, an hour or so later.
One of them was the 13 vodka race winner and he rushed off into town to exact retribution on anyone fitting my description of Breaker Chav Scum Boy. Sadly returning unsuccessful as Breaker Chav Scum Boy was probably at home by then being tucked into bed by his whore alcoholic mother. I cant confirm that, but its my best guess! They (my friends not Breaker Chav Scum Boy and his mother) took me back to a safe house, cleaned me up and left me to sleep it off next to a customary sick bucket just in case.
I woke the next morning to the task of separating the open wounds on my face that had welded themselves to the bed linen overnight. Once I had peeled myself off I recall recovery began with a can of coke, some toast and watching 8.15 from Manchester through my one still good eye!
(Legally I should declare that some of these facts may be wrong or confused. I blame 'K' and the fact that I was punched and kicked repeatedly until I passed out. I can't name Breaker Chav Scum Boy who practised his late night weekend chav pastimes on my puny little body but I do know who it was. His recall of the incident, overheard by a friend on another night out, suggested he had won a great fight against an equal if not superior opponent and his rendition was steeped in heroism and overcoming of great odds. He was a prick!)
