When I’m feeling ill, if I want to drink I tend to engage
with cider. Because it’s fruit, clearly.
It was for this reason that some time ago, at a gig with friends, I
accidentally stumbled into the 1990s teenage world of snakebite. Somewhat under the weather, I had been
repairing my failing health with the magic fizzy apple juice when one of the
aforementioned friends kindly returned from the bar with a can of Red Stripe.
While it is Jamaica’s finest, it‘s obviously not appley-medicine.
Luckily, however,
as a teen I was a well-versed in the arts of drinking like a hobo, so made
myself a shitfacing classic of yesteryear*.
Snakebite. Fizzy filth.
I was reminded of this alchemy yesterday as the spouse of
same lager-buying friend posted a pic of a pint of the same amber evil which
her husband had ordered in the pub, and laid the blame squarely at my feet for
re-introducing the beverage into our collective memory. It was the second time in a week that
snakebite had resurfaced into my milieu, as last week, once again in a state of
physical disrepair, I ordered lager, realised I couldn’t face the taste, and
summoned the serpent of fizz. It was a wise decision.
There’s a word for these states of being wherein you become
aware of something – a word, a person, a tropical disease – and then it seems
to be everywhere. I don’t know what the word is, but it’s out there. Look it
up. No doubt once you come across it, it’ll be in every post you read, every
smile of every child, every stranger’s eyes etc.
Now, twice in a week may not seem to be a frequency which
allows snakebite to fall into this category, but given that - the gig above
aside – I’d not heard the words for nearly a decade, I’m making an exception.
Because I can. Besides, it’ll all tie
together like a Dickens novel in the final paragraph, trust me.
As a result of last weekend’s grimness, I was very much a
token gesture of a son for Mother’s Day, with my efforts limited to sniffling
over to my Ma’s, dropping off a card from Asda, a painted watering can, and a
promise to be a bit more the Prodigal Son this weekend.
And today, a paragon of health, I kept to my word.
When I take the old girl out for the day, I’m going to one
of two places. Upon asking where she’d
like to go, I’m told Anywhere You Want or Anywhere You Want But if You Feel
Like Driving to Lytham.
For those who don’t know, Lytham is a small coastal town
south of Blackpool where rich old northerners go to die. It has a special place in my mother’s heart
because she was brought up there from the age of eight. And like most people in
my family, she has the tiresome habit of telling the same stories again and
again. I used to think it was age, but
then I realised she’s been telling the same stories for the past forty
years. My brother is also prone to the
same habits. I know every time I see him
for the next two months I’m going to be fascinated to death by his detailed
account of how he was sat AT THE FRONT of an Adele concert, and how IT WAS LIKE
HAVING A PERSONAL gig. It only happened
a week ago, and I’ve already heard it twice.
I have caught myself indulging in the same dirty habit at
times. Ever heard about the time I tried to start a fight with Graham Coxon
from Blur? The time I broke my ankle playing football? How I was born in a cross-fire
hurricaine AND under a wandering star? Spend more than two drinking events with
me, and you will.
Back to Lytham. I’ve heard the stories of a post-war childhood
in Lytham since I can remember, to the extent that, like religion, I know the
verse without really thinking about the meaning. It’s long been at the point where I nod
politely, and ask the same generic questions out of courtesy. Today, however, I actually paid attention.
The seafront at Lytham was stunning. A sky of salmon pink infused with a wash of
white-charcoal clouds; a haze which gave the air a mystical quality, almost Avalonesque;
a sun straight off an Apocalypse Now poster. It was pretty lovely. Off guard, I actually paid attention to the
memories she was sharing, as she remembered being in the same spot some
sixty-odd years ago where we then stood, losing half-a-crown and pissing about
on Lytham Windmill**.
And I realised that my mum was talking about actual memories
of actual events with actual people from when she was a very small child. The noise became a life. To me, those details
had always belonged to the Long, Long Ago, in the Beforetimes. Now they had substance.
And this leads me back to snakebite. It is cheap, it is
messy. And it fuelled many event-filled, life-developing nights in my
youth. And those memories make good
tales for the teller probably more than they do the listener. But it’s easy as
an adult to live on the sniff of those memories, and conveyor belt your way
through adult life. Work is a time vampire,
no doubt. But it doesn’t need to be a
life vampire.
*I realise that to a lot of Antipodeans in London,
Snakey is the cutting edge of alcoholic novelty. But it’s only new to you.
** They’re very proud of their windmill
***Nothing like a Dickens novel, but I did
make a promise.
