Escape from the Village — A Father & Son Misadventure

A Drunk Dad, a Bag of Crisps, the Police and a Midnight Escape

One Saturday night, when my mother was still nursing my brother Keith, my father took me to visit his sister Bertha and her husband, Tom Moore, who lived in Anstey. Tom was the steward of the local working men's club, and these Saturday night gatherings always began with a tour of the local pubs.

Children weren’t allowed inside, so we were invariably left outside, clutching a bag of crisps and a bottle of Vimto, listening to the laughter spilling out but never seeing what was so funny. Sometimes I managed to sneak in by sticking my foot in the door, but I was always thrown out again before witnessing anything exciting. Everyone seemed preoccupied with the same silly pastimes – drinking beer and getting drunk. They’d pop out once or twice to use the toilet, and Bertha would hand me another Vimto with the promise, “You’ll like it better at our club – kids can sit inside there.”

We finally made it to the club around closing time. Dad, Tom, and Bertha – all a bit tipsy – would usually settle in the concert room until Bertha warned it was time to go if we wanted to catch the last bus. Of course, Dad had to say goodnight to everyone in the place, leaving me to fend off a bunch of strange women and dodge the sloppy, wet kisses they were handing out.

Suddenly, the door burst open and in walked PC Ford, the village bobby, hell-bent on catching locals drinking after hours. He got that, thanks to Dad – but he also got more than he bargained for.

Worried about the club’s licence, Tom tried to placate PC Ford with a drink, but he wasn’t having it. Dad, meanwhile, was playing with fire – prancing around in front of him with a gormless grin and whistling bird calls right under his nose. The policeman didn’t see the funny side. Convinced Dad was taking the mickey, PC Ford pulled out his truncheon and threatened to hit him. Dad responded by belting him in the mouth and knocking him flat.

There was a stunned silence for a few seconds – then all hell broke loose. Chairs flew in all directions as thirty or forty drunken revellers scrambled for the exits, desperate to get home before the unconscious copper came round. Tom panicked and frantically pushed customers out into the wet, windy night. Dad, meanwhile, carried on humming and whistling bird songs to no one in particular.

Bertha eventually managed to usher him out, telling him to go home to Beatrice (my mum) before he caused any more trouble. The last bus had long gone by then, so she told him to head to her house for a cup of tea and a bed for the night.

We set off to find Bertha’s place, but stumbled into another traumatic experience. Struggling through the rain, we had the impossible task of trying to pick out Bertha’s house from a row of identical terraced homes on the dimly lit George Street. We opened the front door of one house, only to be met with an old lady in bed, screaming “Help! Burglars!” at the top of her voice. How she even saw us, I’ll never know – the only light in the room came from a flickering candle on the mantelpiece.

The poor old dear looked shocked out of her skin as two drowned rats – one blind drunk, the other a child tucked under his arm – stumbled into her bedroom. Dad mumbled an apology, scrambled back out the door and into the rain, dragging me along like a bundle of old rags. He’d forgotten all about Bertha and her promised cup of tea.

We headed down George Street into the Nook, aiming for Anstey Lane – the road toward home and safety. Despite being three sheets to the wind, Dad kept sneaking glances over his shoulder, convinced the village bobby might still be on his tail. But the road was empty and silent.

Eventually, he put me down to walk, though I don’t recall us making much progress that way. So he began alternating between jogging and walking, with me perched on his shoulders. I still can’t remember how we got home or what time it was. But looking back all these years, it’s clear Dad was a hell of a man. He managed to find his way home after a night of heavy drinking, with a five-year-old to take care of. Motor cars were thin on the ground in those days – especially late at night – and five- or six-mile walks were nothing out of the ordinary.

God knows how we survived that hazardous and highly improbable journey.

This little escapade shows just how much the world has changed in the last fifty-odd years. Back then, we left our doors unlocked day and night. You certainly wouldn’t find an old lady lying in bed behind an unlocked door today.

The working class often robbed one another – not out of malice, but because they had so little and were pinching what they could. Walking home in the middle of the night can be dangerous at the best of times, but today you’d more likely get mugged or mown down by joyriders in a stolen car.

I wouldn’t excuse Dad’s behaviour, but his antics seem almost childish compared to the evil that stalks modern society. Far from receiving the respect they deserve, the elderly have become prime targets for muggers. Drug-distorted values and a general disregard for others have created a world where anything not nailed down just gets lifted.

It’s a funny old world, ain’t it?

The End.