Alcoholic constipation

A condition that many people suffered from in their late teens and early twenties, especially in the UK in the late 1980’s early 90’s; where the cultural consumption of alcohol seemed to explode as the nations disposable income increased and even if it didn’t for you, then having a pint seemed like a good way to console yourself! Alcoholic constipation was born – the inability to pass a pub – without stopping off for a pint!

It was around this time, whilst down on my luck, that I bumped into a chap called Victor Budris, oddly enough in a bookies, in Scarborough. He explained to me that he was heading off to Jersey to pick potatoes to fund his lager lifestyle. The rest as they say, especially if you have read my past post, is history.

A Young Persons Railcard, the key to a half price train and ferry ticket to Jersey, was all I needed to head off into the glaring sun as I headed south.  About 20 hours after setting off I arrived in the land of plenty. Unfortunately my meagre savings and the recent expense of travel left me with less than £5 in my pocket and the prospect of a pint was still over 7 miles (12 Km) away. I later learned that we couldn’t have found a more distant pub in the Island from our starting location, but the calling of a tax free beverage and the possibility of gaining employment was the only incentive I needed to make the hike.

Why the long walk for a pint? Victor explained to me that if we arrived at the pub (the La Ralais de Mielles) around tea time then all the farmers would be popping in for a pint after a hard days toil in the fields; this would be an ideal time to say those immortal words ‘gizza job’ and thus find gainful employment as tuber excavators. As a plan it seemed a bit loose, but Victor had three seasons under his belt so I went along with him; what did I have to lose other than my remaining £5 and some boot leather.

Of course the plan worked, my pint cost me less than 50p and we both had jobs within 20 minutes of walking into the pub, not to mention accommodation which, although basic, covered the essentials for survival in a distant southern Island.

For the season of ‘87 The Ralais, our shortened version of La Ralais de Mielles, became a second home, along with The Bell Tap, The Marina, Sands, The Forge, The Watersplash and Les Sables d’Or; yes you guessed it I had started to suffer from alcoholic constipation, and as I returned to Jersey again for my winter break I thought I would visit some of the old dispensaries.

As is often the case in this modern world of finance, the developers have moved in and little remains of the hostelries that I used to frequent; still the pictures are a god introduction of the countryside and architecture of this wartime German stronghold; more of which on another post.

 

 

Posted in Drink, Travel and tagged , , , , , .

4 Comments

  1. Ah, Jersey Royals, a little butter, potato of champions! Hand-picked by Winko, at no extra charge. I was probably eating part of your crop, having just moved back to London Docklands at the time.
    Sounds like great days Eddy mate, I have never been to the C.I., must try to see them one day.
    Best wishes as always, Pete.
    (Ladysighs, I like an occasional drink too. And any time is an occasion…)

    • It was a wonderful Island, now I fear it is all consumed by the finance industry that feeds it, with only the occasional spud as a side dish.
      But then maybe I’m too harsh as I am enjoying my winter break albeit without Gosia.

  2. I am fortunate. I married a man who will only take an occasional drink….but only in his own home….and never more than one….and only about once a week.

    Unfortunately he keeps his eye on the bottle and measures the height of the golden liquid before and after he pours. Keeps me honest. lol

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