Thursday 10 April 2014

‘How Are The Mighty Fallen’ by Neil Campbell

I was in the station bar in Newcastle, looking at the ornate ceiling rather than the numerous TV screens showing the same football match. It wasn’t as if the football had any commentary. I was listening to the music of Lady Gaga or Katy Perry, one of those. From my plush leather seat facing the bar I could see the behaviour of the people around it. The barmaid was sure to retain her formal frown, not yet entirely alienated by the people on the other side of the bar. There were the usual men, nursing a beer while waiting for a train, briefcase on the floor between their legs as they stood at the bar. There was the usual old bloke in a hat, sat on a stool just back from the bar and looking like a poet on payday.

One bear of a man sitting at the bar kept bear hugging other people around him. If a man came to the bar for a drink, he unwittingly invited one of these hugs. The bear was slurring his words just a little bit; I could just hear that above the music. I remembered him. He would be about forty five by now, his fights for the British and European heavyweight titles a distant memory. I couldn’t remember if he’d had a world title shot. With the amount of belts these days I guess he must have.

There was a much younger man standing at the bar and looking down on the bear, and this younger man kept leaving the conversation to talk on his mobile phone. As the younger man talked on the phone, I could see that the bear was still trying to keep the conversation going. The younger man had turned away, and didn’t turn around. He kept talking on his phone. Then the bear began to tug at the tail of the younger man’s suit. But the younger man steadfastly refused to look around, and instead kept talking on his phone. It occurred to me that the younger man had no idea who the bear was.

The bear then turned on his stool, his face searching around the bar. As his narrowing eyes scanned towards me I looked away and up at the ornate clock, high on the wall. And then I saw my pint, still full above the cinched waist. I pulled my scarf together and zipped up my coat, taking my suitcase and leaving the pint.


No comments:

Post a Comment