The Market Tavern

This review takes place around about the age of 26, on a bright afternoon. Its summer, as it always is in these sorts of stories. 4 p.m. on Saturday and I am wide awake and wired! I methodically check the contents of my drainpipes and overcoat, Keys attached to Swiss army knife, fully charged phone, wallet with £100 in spends, Zippo, baccy, harmonica, bandanna, bottle of Amyl and steel comb, (filed down, naturally!). Added to this, a hip-​flask full of vodka, my ratty tobacco tin containing a couple of spliffs, an 8^th and a pack of skins goes into my overcoat inside pocket, carefully peeling back the loose lining around the hem of the coat, while gripping a vial of speed rocks and a one gram coke wrap between my finger tips, I feel around for one of the three secret pockets that were sewn into the coat, (two in the hem and one in the collar). After these have been stashed safely, the lining is then folded securely back into place, making it visually impossible to see any kind of tampering to the garment.
Right, skin one up to have while waiting for the taxi, crush a large speed rock and chop into two lines, smoke roll up and text Neil and Karl, its ten past four, sniff speed and smoke another rollie. Just gone quarter past, phone taxi… 4:20 pm, joint, shades– wait on front step for taxi. In taxi receive a text from Neil, ‘Just arrived, where are you?’- tap out reply, ‘A few minutes away, but going to get out early, got half a spliff to finish’. I pay my fare and get out early by the café, light my half spliff and slowly stroll towards the tavern. As I approach Neil steps outside for a fag with his customary bottle of newky brown, «there’s a drink in there for ya», he tells me. I throw my roach in the gutter and step inside. Removing my shades, the sunlight comes in sharp through the patterned glass windows. The faded varnished but highly polished bar shines as I approach, Peggy is leaning on the bar with a lager and black in front of her. She smiles, turns around and takes a glass containing a double vodka with ice and a can of fizzy out the small fridge, «he said to keep it cold for ya, he didn’t know when you’d arrive… coming for a fag?». I step outside with Peggy and roll a fag, Neil has just flicked a nub-​end into the gutter and lit another one.
As we smoke, chat and laugh leaning against the terracotta bricks of the grade 2 listed building far from the madding crowd of Digbeth, the sun is warm, our drinks are cold and I have a mild weed buzz and prickles of good speed running through my system. *Beep* *beep*, ‘just got into town, be about 5 mins’… «Karl’ll be here in about 25 minutes» I tell Neil. The tavern is empty as we go back inside to sit down and tonight it will stay empty, well, empty except for the filthy few that turn up there at the same time every Saturday as though attending holy communion. When we go inside, Terri, (Peggy’s daughter), is sat at our usual table by the door, Neil, Peggy and I join her. Tonight in the tavern there are no bands, there are no D. J’S and there are no birthday party strippers. Tonight the filthy few will have the tavern to themselves, tonight there will be no moshing, no crowds at the bar and no having to queue to use the disabled toilets to sniff lines. Tonight it will be pounds and pounds pumped into the jukebox, 25 songs each time someone goes up, the same records getting repeated to hear a particular guitar riff or bass line over and over. Handfuls of 50p’s on the pool table, pulling off impossible trick shots to be greeted with shouts of «fluke»… When you reach the point of alcohol consumption where anything involving using your hands, legs or arms becomes an impossibility, pool, getting to the jukebox/​disabled toilet/​whatever, then its time to recline back on the furniture like a cunt on a punt, drink more, blow blues harmonica riffs and wait until 11:00 p. m… so the doors can be locked and ashtrays can be put on the table and we can behave like civilized people again.
I’ve been at the tavern half an hour, Terri stands up and strolls around the bar. Without any exchange of words she pours another vodka, takes a can of fizzy from the fridge and pops the cap off another newky brown. «Pint of lager as well please, Tez», I pay Terri and hand Neil his drink. As I walk back towards the table with mine, the door creaks and swings open, «your piss waters on the bar mate»… Karl walks in on cue, to the strains of David Bowie screaming, ‘THIS AIN’T ROCK ‘N’ ROLL… THIS IS GENOCIDE…’ There will be no speed-​drinking done tonight, we know we’ll be here until 4 a.m. at least, there is definitely no rush… besides the bottle that gets poured so liberally onto the bandanna and breathed in deeply every time Karl and I do lines of speed. We are chatty, in good humour and content. The sun shines, the tavern is open and all is right with the world!
«Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.»
― Dr. Seuss