A Drinkers Diary 
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Introduction

This page is dedicated to every sad ex-pat Hartlepudlian who has bombed up the M1 on a Friday afternoon to try and make opening hours.

 It usually starts with a load of grief from my girlie down south giving me earache about clearing off for the weekend. I listen sympathetically like the caring 90's man that I am and then jump into the van and drive up anyhow. The following detail the now classic format of the Hartlepool weekend.

The Arrival

Thank the lord for that. 5 hours breathing diesel on the M1 and I finally reach the clean air of the big H. . Except its not. Stepping out of the van and immediately into the first pile of dog shite. Yes, it's great to be back in the dog shite capital of the North. Within ten minutes of arriving, Watson and Parsons turn up on the doorstep. Apparently Friday, like Sunday, is a day off in Hartlepool for the lads. The lads had used the day constructively drinking in the Engineers all day. By the time they arrived at my gaff they had been drinking for 6 hours. They wanted to know what we would be doing for the night. In order to resolve the issue, we had to phone our leader Sladey but he was walking the dog and as a result we were lost without his guidance. In the absence of sound advice, we took the tentative steps of deciding what we were going to do ourselves and hope that our leader would approve. We took the adventurous step of suggesting that we regroup at the Engineers an hour later just from a change of scene.

Granny Gets Her Kit Off Shocker

The Engineers was practically empty. Parsons was looking a little worse for wear after drinking all day and then going home and eating the worlds biggest pizza. Typically the pizza got the blame. The totty in the Engineers was as dire as always. Parson and Peter were already there when we arrived. Katrina promptly turned her nose at them and told them not to sit in "Skid Row". I looked at the seats and concluded that the label was the result of incontinence. Katrina informed me that the real reason was that the alcos and down and outs sit on that particular row of seats. Looking at the clientele to our immediate right I could now see why we got some many stares last time we sat down there. Things were pretty quite with the conversation more or less exhausted by the afternoon session when the jukebox started belting out a Spice Girls number. One of the old grannies in Skid Row who was totally wazzed decided it would be a really good idea if she got up and had a dance and do a strip for her mates who consequently were also palatik as well. Watson couldn't believe his eyes as Grandma Spice went through her routine. Parsons looked away which wasn't such a bad thing given the delicate state of his stomach.

Domestic Bliss in The Jacksons

The beer may well be cheap but the Engineers just wasn't going off. Cheap drink alone is not enough to sustain a good night out even though Sladey would argue the toss. After the mandatory "where are to go next ritual" we decided on the Jacksons Arms. The place was heaving and I was surprised as I thought the main night out was a Saturday night. Apparently not. Not long into the stop, Watson tactfully mentioned that he was not going to stay in tomorrow night and further more he was going out without Katrina would didn't appreciate this too much. Following a minor domestic, Watson put on a display of extreme brown nosing and the issue was resolved. By this point in the night Parsons stomach was really starting to object to the pizza that he had eaten (even though it approved of the large amount of alcohol he had drank that afternoon). Perhaps it may have objected to amount of sarcasm flowing from his gob hole but whatever it was, he had to disappear for a walk to try and placate it. He came back sometime later looking not much better and soon sloped off home.

Watson Gets Dragged Into Pub Against Will

After a uneventful stop in the Princess Helena, we tried to get into The Royal but it was heaving. The Office was also so the only reasonable place left to go was the Tap and Spile. Watson was far from impressed with this idea and we were suddenly launched into a heated debate about fiscal management outside of the Tap and Spile. Apparently the beer cost about .0002p more in the Tap and Spile compared to the other pubs and would rather die on principal than pay the extra. In the end Watson conceded the point and for once we ended up the drinkers nirvana, The Tap and Spile.

The Big Night Out

Oh dear. It must have been the expensive pint in the Tap and Spile on Friday night that did it but Peter was completely skint for Saturday night and wasn't available for the fun and games that we had in store. Actually it would seem that everybody was skint also because we ended up going to Watsons instead of the pubs on Saturday for the warm up session for the main event of the night, The Gem. We stopped off at Charlie Chuckles on Duke St. to get stocked up on really cheap out of date ale for the night. After drinking a skinful round Watson, our senses were finally dulled enough to even considering going to the Gem. Sladey was shit faced by this point and Bev was also pretty well out of it after one too many alco-pops. Watson could not contain his excitement and was jumping around like a dog that has just been shown his lead. Briscoe might have been also but he seems to have turned into a Hermit McDermott and allegedly had other plans for the night with Gaynor which probably involved sitting on the couch watching TV. Our golden chariot arrived (that's a yellow Hudsons taxi to you) and we were waiting at the pearly gates at 10:30 after first been allocated our free entry tickets by our team leader.

The now traditional thing to do if you get into the Gem before 11 seems to be to watch Match of the Day until they start selling the drinks for a pound. Yes it is true, free entry to a nightclub and drinks for a pound a go. Too good to be true really. I'm not surprised in the least that alcohol is such a problem in this town.

We were all shot away a bit at this point and everything started to get a bit hazy. Watson and Bev got down a bit on the dance floor to the strains of Madness and other funky eighties type tunes. The highlight of the night must have been the dyslexic version of YMCA by the Village people performed by Bev. Watson grooved and Sladey continued to drink relentlessly. Before I knew it, it was 01:30, my eyes were stinging, my ears were ringing, my lungs were screaming and my head was hurting. Well and truly slaughtered. Sladey was looking not too much better after his mini marathon and we decided to leave since the whole scene was going pear shaped.

And that was it. Where else in the UK can you go out, get totally wazzed and get into a nightclub and come out with change from a tenner unless you are a student. If you can, we want to know.

After a flurry of email, meself and Sladey decided that that it was about time we headed North for a weekend of culture. Five consecutive weeks in London and visit to a pub that didn't sell beer on draught and that was all the catalyst he needed to pack his bags and jump on the Blueline and head for certified Northern insanity.

Hartlepool Work PermitFriday night was looming and we were on the starting blocks. A phone call to our Team Leader to confirm the itinerary for the night saw us kick off at the Engineers. The novelty value of a pound a pint never wears off and Watson and Parsons looked on bemused as Sladey and Bev quaffed loads of Ale down stopping every now again to work out how much we had saved coming up North for a beer. I dropped the question to ace round dodger Slade, "So then Sladey man, how much does it cost yer for a top night out down in the southern shit pit" to which he rather enthusiastically replied, "You wouldn't believe that I went all night out with a load of people, bought the first round, spent a fiver and the beer just kept coming after that". Watson and Parsons were at this point in hysterics at this tale of ace round dodging by the master of the art himself Guru Slade.

Coming into town the night before, I passed the Wesley on the way home. It was pissing down but that wasn't a deterrent cos there was huge queue of rather soaked through beaver waiting to get in. To make matters worse, there was this massive fuck column of foam covering everybody and drifting down Victoria Rd. Somebody had dropped a bottle of fairy liquid into the fountain outside the Wesley. Talking to Watson, he said that they checked the place on Thursday. Watson said of the place "Wall to wall fanny. The wimmin must have outnumbered the blokes by about 4 to 1 and was some tidy looking pieces of totty in there". Parsons who is normally completely unfazed by the presence of wimmin in the locality of beer, actually seconded Watsons sentiments. Briscoe now deliriously in love with the glorious Gaynor, wasn't too bothered by the fact that there was totty hanging from the rafters and said that "It was heaving in there. You could barely move and it was really hot and sweaty". Apparently it was 70p in before 11 o'clock and a couple of quid after. Drinks inside were a pound a pint. All of them agreed that the place has been done up really well and it was a good night out. Given the current popularity of the place, it looks like its going to be a while before I get in the place to check it out. Watson also said that as a result of Wesley, 42nd St. has had to drop its exorbitant prices because it is dying a death. Rumours are afoot that the place is going to be refurbished. The same fate awaits Buzz and Zoom. It looks like now there is more than a couple of night clubs in the town, the monopoly has been smashed, and they are having to pull out all the stops to keep their clientele.

After a few in the Engineers, we decided to have a walk over to the newly refurbished Park Hotel on Park Rd. For a Friday night, the town was like a ghost town up the top end. Yates, the new wine bar where Bernard Poveys used to be, was heaving, but passing Oscars and Churchill's wine bars on the way there, they were completely deserted. The Park itself was deserted. We had a nostalgic trip back to the place to see what they have done to the place. The back room looked great and much better that it used to look. It had been tastefully redecorated in the style of a proper traditional pub without any of the usual American paraphernalia adorning the walls. The only concession to the nineties is the now almost mandatory video screen. Sladey was well impressed with the price of the beer. At a pound and nine pence you can't go wrong there. The Park is definitely back on the itinerary although its a long bloody walk in the rain to the next decent pub from there. Certainly a really good place if you want a quiet place for a drink without baseball bats and cheesy American Hamburger signs above you head.

After the Park we had a walk down to the Jacksons before calling the end to what was a very quiet Friday night in the Big H.

Kebab For Breakfast Horror

Sladey is a complete bloody party animal. Sladey crashed out at our house last night, and when I came downstairs in the morning, endured the equivalent of the ferocity of the Hiroshima attack on my nasal passages. Sladey was sat on the couch tucking into his garlic laden kebab special from Sicillianos from the night before for breakfast. Needless to say I had to get a photo of this spectacle and the evidence of this your honour is up above because behaviour like this cannot be ignored.

Full On In the Big H.

Wahey the lads are back in the Big H. for a weekend of beer, pubs, night clubs, more beer and errr, taking their mams out on Mothers day. I rang Sladey midweek to find out the word, which was, that he had been drinking full fat southern beer and was now resembling a teletubby (it was debatable but La La seemed the most apt description). Sladey was less than impressed with this label retorting that having a TV in his gut would reduce his beer drinking capacity to that of Watson. In attempt get him up North for the weekend, Watson and meself managed to persuade him to go on a diet of slim fast low fat northern beer for a couple of days as an experiment in weight control.  Of course it was all bollocks but that was all the excuse that our man with the lardy gut needed for a weekend in the Big H. Watson needed less persuading. His flaccid member needed servicing and working in South Wales for the last six weeks with nothing but a significant population of sheep and Koreans for light relief, made a weekend in the Big H. positively appealing. Besides, he as a new chick and had hatched a cunning, no expense spared plan for removing her underwear. More on that later.

I got to the 'pool in time for Friday night. Half an hour after getting through the door, me, Parsons and Peter were sat down in the Park admiring the first pint of the evening. Peter was suffering from a bout of verbal diarrhoea as usual and me and Parsons felt compelled into saying "Oi, Peter, shut up yer gob shite". Often in pubs, you hear a couple of local lads chewing the fat and talking shite. Stood at the bar in the Park, I heard one lad say to another, "Ere just got in 'ave yer", to which the other lad said "Aye, this is me first pint like. I'm only going to 'ave another eight cos I'm going to 'ave an easy night cos I 'ave to be up fer werk in the morning".  Next stop was the "Fly 'n' Jug" where we played the local pub game of watching the wimmin hurdle the barriers. The Saracens Rugby team were in town and coincidentally were all stood next to us in the Fly and Jug making complete tit heads of themselves making the local clientele look like the Oxford University Challenge Team. I volunteered Parsons to tell them that they looked like a load of twats but he declined. Since Saturday night was the main event, we decided not to drink a shedful on Friday night. However, this was not to be the case. By the end of the night, the prescribed shedful had been drank. Saturday morning was met with the usual feeling of being kicked about the head by a welsh rugby team.

Watson, that night however had decided not to come out with the lads and instead, had invested heavily in the off chance of getting the pants off his new girlie. So, instead of spending the night out with us he spent the night holed up in a flash hotel in Durham, wining and dining the young Caroline (I said I'd mention yer Caroline :) Ed.). Unfortunately the full-time results are taking a little longer to come in this time, but the lads reckoned it was a no-score draw :).

Saturday saw the arrival of Slade in town. Landlords around the town had been warned in advance and Camerons had stepped up production in anticipation of Sladeys arrival. Indeed the man Slade wasted little time. Full of good intention he set off to buy a Mothers Day present for Mammy Slade, but easily way laid by masters of persuasion, Peter and Parsons, who mentioned in passing that they were ganning down to do a pub quiz at which point Sladey decided that he still had all of the morning on Mothers Day to buy his mams present, disappeared off to the pub with the lads for beery consumption.

Most of Saturday morning for me was spent walking around the town getting some more pictures for the page and trying to get rid of a fekking hangover. I only succeeded on the first count. The headache lasted all bloody day. The rate of change in the town  is evident every trip back. This time I noticed that the old site of the dog track and the Fairworld Cinema had been levelled and there was a rather large sign threatening a bowling alley, a drive in restaurant (that's McDonalds to you and me) and a multi screen cinema. The Dovecot is getting ever closer to being finished and is looking really smart now. Church St was been prepared for the Funday Sunday event which was to celebrate the ending of the Teesside Developments Corporations attempts at trying to tidy up the town. Loads of work by local schools had been put into preparing decorations and the end result was really attractive.

So Saturday night came and we all met up in the Park hotel which is by the looks of things, is starting to pick up again after a spell in the doldrums. By 10 o'clock we (I) was flying and it was time for the main event Buzz and Zoom. Free in and one pound fifty anything behind the bar, you just can't go wrong there. In fact, here is where I forget the rest of the proceedings as everything went a bit hazy at this point. All I can remember is it getting to 2 am and then the DJ shouting "Wahey we're ganna stay open 'til three" and a rather dodgy woman with a way to short a skirt doing some dirty dancing on a podium with some fat bloke and intermittently flashing her box at everybody. In my severely drunken state, I remember this rather appealing to me. By about 2 o'clock, our man Briscoe decided that he wanted to try out chain smoking. In fact there was so much smoke coming from him, I considered throwing my drink over him on a couple of occasions as I thought there was a distinct chance of some spontaneous human combustion likely to happen. So completely trollied, I stumbled back home and fell asleep in the bath waking up at about 5 am freezing me tits off.

Sunday Morning

Fuck it, another typical Sunday write off in Hartlepool spent feeling as rough as a badgers chuff. Why can't somebody invent some beer that doesn't give you the shits and a headache?  Had a right fucking weird day. Ended up talking to some bloke called John who reckoned he was been bugged by the CIA. It just gets weirder. John if you are out there, stop watching the X files and get some beer down yer throat.

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