It was one summer evening, back in the eighties, when the
Angel was still a proper pub, that I met
Boris in Corbridge.
He’d already been to
every other pub in the village
with the lads: Pecker, Lowesy, Sedgy and Jaydee.
He was in a thin T-shirt, tight on his muscles, his face flushed and
bald head sunburnt. He greeted me with hug,
beery words mumbled in my ear.
After we’d bought
our pints of Theakstons we sat and watched the
herds of women passing the window, all tanned and in
strappy tops.
I’ve got a trick, said Boris,
as he grabbed the leg of the table.
It was covered in
glasses, halves and pints, some full,
others part empty.
Watch this, he said.
We stood back,
formed a circle as he held the table leg in his right hand, as he
lifted it off the floor,
first a millimetre
then a centimetre,
then more.
We cheered as it rose up in his
unsteady grip, until it
tipped,
tilted several degrees and
all the glasses slid off, emptied.
Smashed on the floor.
The circle broke up as we ran for the door,
while the bar staff shouted at us.
Boris laughed, leading us out into the
crowds of drunks,
on that warm summer evening, back in the eighties.