How I became Sir Shannon Alberry
Unfortunately we do not celebrate drinking anymore - the hell raising drinkers don't seem to be about as they did when I first started out in the trade.
The delight of a long lunch, foamy ale and lots of whisky to follow. They were wonderful days. Richard Harris, Peter O'Toole, Richard Burton, George Best - there were loads of them.
Probably the greatest drinker of all time was Oliver Reed. Difficult when sober - a true nightmare when not, which was often. But he was also a briliant raconteur and a generous man. A regular over many years at the Bloated Toad. He loved inventing names and stories.
My favorite was the legend of The Shannon Alberry. He could delight me and the gang for hours with tales of how powerful these two words could be. Like wandering into Jack Barclays in Mayfair to look at the latest Bentley and being asked by the salesman, 'What are you driving these days sir'? 'Oh The Shannon Alberry - just parked round the corner'. 'Oh what a lovely car, don't see many of them these days, stopped making them just before the war didn't they'?
Or going to the local market on Guilford and asking the fruit and veg man for a lb of Shannon Allberries. 'Sorry sir not got them this season - lots of lovely raspeberries and logan berries though'.
My favorite tale was the double barrelled shot gun which I had bent over my knee in anger one day - a story I will tell you all about, some other time.. I framed it and put it up on the wall of the pub. Oliver of course christened it The Shannon Alberry mole catching gun. Oliver would regail gullible tourists - often of American origin - with the description of how you used the gun by bending it down the mole hill and blasting away. The story clearly travelled well - one day while,I was polishing the glasses a sprightly American Gent came to the bar and asked in hushed tones. 'Are you Sir Shannon Allberry, the inventor of the famous mole catching gun'? From that day on - I became Sir Shannon Allberry.
Our most successful friends Sir Clive and Lady Doris Emmanuel invite a select gathering of their closest friends to celebrate Lady Doris's 50th birthday at Lady's Day on Epsom Downs. A keen sporting supporter of all hues I have to say a day at the races is my least favorite outing. The hoi polloi are everywhere! The boss and myself comfort ourselves that we would of course be in the Royal Enclosure. Time to get the morning suit out and for The Boss to don the right royal glad rags. I must say we look the pair.
It comes as a great surprise therefore to find ourselves in a large marquee in the middle of the paddock - and not hobnobbing with the aristocracy either. The usual stuff, champagne - always to be avoided, for the afternoon killer headache - coronation chicken and somnambulant chat. The lovely and ever fragrant Penny Gentry was there saving the day, regailing us with stories about how Shagger Gentry has finally buggered off. You would not believe it. 'We made passionate love in the morning and he phones at 5.00pm to tell me he can't come home, 'why's that I ask, bad traffic on the south circular? - no I am leaving you, I haven't loved you for years.' Lots of tears and support from yours truly means that I lose track of the time.
Lady Doris rises at 1.40pm and tells us in firm tones. 'It's the royal procession in 20 minutes we better get going.' Everyone falls into line but of course Penny and I are deep in the dying embers of her late lamented marriage...The Bastard! Lady Doris notices as she is about to leave the marquee that Penny and I have not fallen into line and turns to The Boss saying. 'Don't you think Shannon should be coming ..its the royal procession in 10 minutes. The boss retorts.' 'Well you know Shannon, he is a bit of a Republican'. Doris gives The Boss a steely look and says. I know he is a publican but the Queen is coming in 10 minutes.'
The moral of the tale. It does not matter how successful you are, how erudite you are - a publican is a publican.
