The worst weekend of my life

Anthony Burgess

If I remember correctly, it was during the late 1980’s when I experienced the worst weekend of my life.

It was still dark and quiet in the small Welsh town where I lived. Not surprising as it was only quarter to seven on a bitterly cold February Friday morning.

My wife was dropping me off to catch the bus. It was actually her that had persuaded me to take up the invite from a few friends to join them on a rugby trip to Edinburgh to watch Wales play.

I told her that I really did not want to go. My rugby weekends were a thing of the past, to a time before I was married. I was now a committed family man, even my arguments that I had so many jobs to catch up on at home and I could always watch the game on the box would not sway her.

‘A bit of male bonding will do you the world of good’ she emphasised and gave my knee a gentle pat as we sat eating our M&S meal deal on our laps in front of the television watching ‘Auf Wiedersehen Pet’.

‘Look at these boys enjoying working and having fun together, you haven’t been out with your mates for ages, so go on and enjoy yourself, it’ll do you good.’

I already knew at the knee pat stage that the decision was made.

Comfortable

My male bonding days were over as far as I was concerned. I really enjoyed the familiar routine of my life these days and hadn’t had a hangover since goodness knows when. I was in fact extremely comfortable with my current life and so far on this bleak February morning I was sincerely regretting agreeing to go.

The rugby trip was organised to leave from a local pub at seven o’clock for the long journey by road. I bade my fond farewells to my wife and entered the pub with five minutes to spare or so I thought. I was clutching my old Addidas plastic sports bag that contained a change of clothes, pyjamas, toilet bag and a round of sandwiches which my wife insisted I take.

The scene inside the pub took me slightly aback. It was absolutely choc a bloc with a raucous party atmosphere and loud laughter. A band were playing in the corner and pints were being passed around as fast as the bar staff could pour them.

One of my friends put his arm around my shoulder and guided me to where the others stood, a pint was thrust into my hand before I had chance to even say hello to everyone. Then a familiar figure approached me with a large whiskey in one hand a notebook in the other.

I recognised him immediately despite his perennial brown trilby today being slightly askew on his head.

It was my bank manager ‘Penny in your pocket Thomas’. I’d always thought his nickname appropriate due to his occupation and his habit of wearing an old gaberdine mac which today was folded over one arm.

He could have been a dead ringer to Harold Wilson, only the pipe was missing.

‘Ten pounds for the kitty’. he shouted in my ear. ‘Should be enough for a while’ he continued. By the time I had delved into my wallet and retrieved the money another pint was waiting for me.

Pint

I now stood with my bag on the floor between my feet and a pint in either hand and I wondered what the hell I had let myself in for.

A wonderful baritone voice singing ‘Myfanwy’ brought the noise levels down to almost complete silence as everyone stopped chatting to listen to this beautifully sung rendition of that emotive song. I looked around to find the source of this incredible voice. He wasn’t hard to spot as he stood on a chair to sing.

He was a man of at least twenty stone as round as he was tall and dressed fully in Welsh traditional costume, the female version.

He finished to a huge roar of shouts of appreciation, then by waving his hands up and down for silence he announced that the bus was waiting and for all of us to get our arses in gear….

It still took some considerable time to get everyone out and, on the bus. The driver already looked frazzled or so I thought as I looked at him through slightly glazed eyes after downing my two pints, I also regretted not going to the loo.

I appeared to be the only person with a semblance of a bag, everyone else seemed to just have clinking plastic carrier bags, a few others were clearly hoping to have a round of golf in Scotland as a few golf bags disappeared into the bowels of the coach.

Amongst these was an old agricultural fertiliser bag with six golf clubs sticking out tied around the neck with baling twine.

The four back rows of the bus had been reserved for the band which included the owner of the pub who played a double bass, another had a snare drum, along with two guitarists and a banjo player.

They struck up as soon as the bus started to move. Everyone, including myself burst into simultaneous song in accompanying the music.

The carrier bags belonging to my fellow pilgrims were soon opened and cans or bottles of beer were passed around, someone shouted that he’d forgotten a bottle opener, a young lad offered to open the bottles for him and swiftly bit off the bottle tops with his teeth.

Half an hour into the trip the two pints drunk on an empty stomach ambushed my bladder, fortunately many more on the bus were suffering similarly, and after ten minutes of singing ‘stop the bus’ the exasperated driver pulled into a lay by.

Relief 

The relief of the rest stop renewed the vigour of the singing as we set off again towards Newtown where apparently breakfast awaited us. Two hours and three bottles of John Smiths later we pulled up in front of a pub where the much longed for breakfast awaited and even more importantly the toilets.

The demand for the loos was so huge that even the female facilities were utilised with that giant of a baritone in his Welsh costume jumping the queue shouting ‘Women and Children first.’

‘Pound in your Pocket Thomas’ came around again with his notebook and with a slurred voice spoken through a whiskey laden breath asked for another twenty pounds to cover a few more drinks and the bacon rolls. Our breakfast stop lasted through to a liquid lunch and I recall being bundled back onto the bus to my seat where I apparently adopted a semi-comatose state until yet another toilet stop the other side of Oswestry.

The pattern for the whole weekend had been set. We eventually arrived in our hotel in Peebles, but no one headed for their bedrooms but instead to the bar. Where the band had already set up and the singing began again. I do recall being asked by the Hotel manager in the early hours if we could stop singing, I am sure you can imagine the response.

We miraculously made Murrayfield for the game on Saturday afternoon. We had a hearty and greatly appreciated lunch of haggis, tatties and neeps. I was told it was traditional to pour whiskey over the haggis.

‘Best gravy in the world’, someone told me

Those who hadn’t got tickets for the game bought some outside the stadium from some touts and ended up sitting in the school children’s reserved section.

The band of the Royal Scottish Regiment in their traditional tartan kilts tried their best to keep with the Welsh singing in the stadium but were always left a few bars behind.

Flower of Scotland

However, we Welsh were drowned out when ‘Flower of Scotland’ was sung. It was the first time I had heard it.

Tennent’s beer flowed like water which by now I had certainly acquired a taste for. Needless to say, none of us made it to bed on Saturday night. The hotel manager had resigned himself to a long night and he even joined in with some of the singing.

The journey back on Sunday was the reverse of the journey up. Most of us slept soundly until the same pub in Newtown provided us with a late lunch and also handed us with three of our party who’d missed getting back on the bus on the way up and had therefore just stayed all weekend and watched the game on tele.

Our baritone mascot remained dressed in his costume with two days growth of a beard but minus his tall hat.

My wife found my unopened sandwiches in my case along with my unworn spare clothes and clearly unused razor. We lay in bed, her with her back to me, there was a definite frosty tension in that bedroom.

‘Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself’ she snapped.

Love,’ I said, ‘It was the worst weekend of my life.’

Fortunately, she had her back to me and she couldn’t see the huge smile on my face.