I’d been loitering outside for about ten minutes, talking to some girls, when I realised they were not taking any notice of what I was saying. Instead they were looking to my midriff position, giggling. Nothing new there, I hear you say, but it turned out not to be for the reason you’re smugly assuming. Whilst I was waxing lyrical about something or other, my right hand had involuntarily formed itself into the shape it would be if holding a pint glass, in a form of muscle memory scientists would froth at the mouth about if they’d witnessed the event. Looking down, I realised I was thirsty, made my excuses and headed for the bar. John the barman was standing at the door – something that immediately set alarm bells ringing as it meant he wasn’t manning the pumps – and as I greeted him with a hearty bellow and a pat on the back, he handed me a raffle ticket. Before I could enquire why he’d favoured me like this, or indeed say I couldn’t afford it, he furrowed his brow and shook his head.
“Don’t ask.”
I didn’t, and went about my normal Sunday night business. Several hours later, realising the music had stopped, I turned to see what Steve the DJ was up to, and why he wasn’t playing the Lillian Axe album I’d brought along. Adding to this dereliction of duty was John, out from behind the bar again, who was holding the sort of straw hat people think looks sweet when put on a donkey. It was full of more raffle tickets. It transpired that Ted the landlord, tired of waking up every morning to see Steve’s wreck of a Ford Escort in the car park, had ordered Marlow’s finest purveyor of the good stuff to get rid of it. But Steve, the recent acquisitor of a Jaguar XJS, had no room for the ol’ banger and couldn’t really be arsed to try and flog it. The answer was obvious. Raffle it off to one of the regulars down the Peg on Sunday night, make it their problem.
And so, with everyone out for an archetypal summer Sunday at the Pegasus, there were about 150 tickets in the hat. Excitement was at fever pitch (though it’s fair to say it had been rather a long day, and some of the hysteria may have been somewhat manufactured, or at least cider-induced).
Whatever. Steve plunged his hand into the hat, causing several tickets to flutter out. Uproar. People pointed and shouted, fearful that their chances of a free auto were spinning to the floor like a sycamore leaf in an autumn breeze. Flustered, he began scrabbling around on the floor gathering up the flotsam, while John stood looking aggrieved. I went to the toilet. I never win anything you see, and I’d convinced myself that there was no point watching this fiasco.
When I returned, the car was still unclaimed. Ignoring the shouts to redraw, Steve called out one more time.
“One more time: pink 64!”
As I tripped over the mic lead on my way to the bar, I pulled out my last tenner to buy another pint. In it was the pink raffle ticket I’d been given earlier. Leaning on the bar, I unscrewed it. Number 64. I turned triumphantly towards the dancefloor.
“ME! IT’S ME!”
I punched the air and gracelessly took the keys from the grinning emcee. At last I knew what it felt like to be a winner…
Next time: How do you get a Ford Escort home when you’re pissed up on booze and don’t have a driving licence?
