Timepiece Tales… Part 3
Adam Lax explores Little Castle Street on a Friday night
We return to the hockey club for this particular escapade, but the leash of journalistic freedom has been extended; Wednesday nights mean nothing when this particular weekend warm up finds its way into the public domain. A ‘casual’ Friday session is the setting; we all know how it goes.
“Yeah, no biggie, how about a quiet few downstairs, see where the night takes us?”
“Sure thing, a quick Doombar in Old Timers, find a bench outside; just make sure I don’t get a stamp, make sure nothing gets out of hand, make sure it’s not as bad as Wednesday…”
Famous last words indeed, particularly for a gentleman who should have known so much better than to sacrifice his pride, dignity and self-respect, on an evening when a quiet night out became a quiet night in, but with devastating and ever-lasting consequences.
If you dare to venture along Little Castle Street, take care, be vigilant, and make sure the morning after the night before never, ever, becomes a Timepiece Tale…
For those of you unfamiliar with the logistics of our beloved Friday Timepiece, the scores of chino clad rowers are no more, the Barbour Jackets and Rampant Gillets take over, but as ever, nothing is quite what it seems. Lurking in those murky waters of Top Top, drifting with the waves of inebriated revellers, we meet the more sinister patron of our hallowed walls.
This week, the Drop brings you the story of boy meets girl, of true ‘love’, and of the finest females Devon has to offer, with the particular breed that many a student dares never to explore. This is the story of EUMHC meeting Exe and the City.
The conversation always takes a turn for the worse, when this particular gentleman’s perfection of the stinky chat accustomed to Wednesdays and Wednesdays only boils down to the ‘I’ve got an en-suite bathroom’ tactic perfected in years gone by. This damsel was not easily swayed by the promise of five items of her choice for brunch the following morning, she was after so, so much more.
This silly gentleman was able, against all socially accepted protocol known to mankind, entice his special one, who can only be described as of an ‘older persuasion’, down from the hunting ground of Top Top and towards the game breaker: the Middle Floor benches.
Despite warnings and howls of derision from his nearest and dearest, persistence was the name of the game; settling for the finest Marsh Barton has to offer is certainly one method of combating a self-destructive dry spell. It was almost too good to be true, something told him it was, something that he would only discover until it was far too late.
Credit where credit was due, not only was the evening’s exercise with a more ‘experienced’ lady an eye opening and educational activity, breakfast was even provided in the morning, the fair maiden offering our knight in shining armour a lift down the Alphington Road back in time for Game Day.
The scrambled eggs on toast were a particular highlight of the evening’s frivolities; however, this gentleman understood very quickly that they were not alone, and it all came flooding back.
Visitors at breakfast is never something to frown upon, but our hero realised something had gone very wrong, when instead of being greeted by his Devonian Princess the following morning, two others had joined them both at the table, with one uttering an immortal line he will never be able to forget for the rest of his living days.
“Mummy, is this new Daddy?”