One for the Road

My old friend is in need of TLC and pewter polish. No
expense will be spared.

 I have, by good fortune, rediscovered an old friend.   Ferreting in a cupboard, among  the detritus of abandoned cruet sets and gravy boats, I came across my old pewter tankard, the loyal companion of my early manhood, and silent witness to the sometimes deplorable progress of my youthful rites of passage.

     I first met my friend, strangely, in Baghdad, during my National Service in 1956, and felt an instant attraction. Inside, on the glass bottom, was etched what I thought was an ancient Mesopotamian hieroglyphic, but which turned out to be a dartboard. Thereafter, my tankard accompanied me nightly to the NAAFI, variously accommodating Carlsbergs, Tuborgs and William Younger's Double Century, and adding, I felt, a certain je ne sais qoi to my image and establishing my credentials as a would-be exhibitionist.

     On return to 'civvie street',  my tankard joined in wholeheartedly with my cycling activities, Attached outside my saddlebag, it would bounce along quite happily on club-runs to the lunchtime pub stop, the lid clattering excitedly over uneven surfaces, and be ready for use again when we arrived for the Sunday evening pub session. And, of course, it was an invaluable accessory in the cycling-club party scene, a popular feature of the 'social season' in the early 1960's, and an activity which received my enthusiastic support.

This is my tankard in action in its halcyon days. Am I making a brilliant
intellectual point to someone? Or am I rat-arsed?

     On party nights I would leave home attired in my best Italian suit, winkle-pickers, and 'Frank Sinatra' trilby, clutching my tankard and with a Party Seven beer can tucked under my arm.

     Party Sevens were the forerunner of today's dinky little lager cans, cans that don't hold more than a gnats' wotsitful. As the name implies, a Party Seven contained seven pints of beer, and as each party-goer was honour bound to provide one, we never ran short. However, the 'Seven' did have certain drawbacks, the first being that it was almost impossible to open. There was nothing as fancy as a ring-pull, and it was necessary to make two holes in the top to get at the beer. This top, I swear, was constructed completely from war-surplus armour plating, and the only way in was using hammer and punch, necessitating powerful smiting and a liberal use of deleted expletives, offering considerable danger to kitchen work tops and tiled floors. The reward for success was invariably a reluctant trickle of fizzy, metallic-tasting, liquid which somehow managed to go flat before it hit the bottom of the tankard. Only the most dedicated party-goer could drink the stuff, and glass demi-johns of rough cider were a favoured alternative. The girls, of course, utterly refused to drink the beer. God knows what they drank, I never took them anything.

      I can't remember when I split up with my tankard. When I got married I suppose, lots of things change when you get married, not always for the best, though perhaps I shouldn't say that. All I know is, it wasn't me that stuffed it in the cupboard with the old cruets.