Hollyox
On any other night, The Trout Pub, just outside Oxford was just a regular pub. Pensioner's huddled in booths over very slowly disappearing pints, underage girls - too young to get into pubs in town - slurp at their Bacardi Breezers through straws, families on their weekly pub meal, crowd around a table laden with fat chips. The Thursday of second week was not, however, any other night. It was the chosen date, long awaited by the crustier members of The Culling Club. They knew. Quent Huntington-Smythe did not know. He had googled and asked Jeeves about the society for nigh on four hours. Quent did not know what to expect, nor whether to be flattered or fearful.
On the flip side, not turning up was not an option. Not knowing who else was involved, Quent knew that by not gracing The Cullers (or whatever their collective noun happened to be) not only would he face the wrath of the Aristocracy, he would be missing out on some valuable contacts when starting out in Law. It was, then, with some trepidation that Quent ambled coolly into The Trout, carefully adhering to the dress code (Wear a tie, no short-sleeved shirts) and with an impenetrable forcefield of a fixed smile. Ordering his drink from the bar, he mentioned his appointment, and was ushered into a back room, by a burly Turk whom Quent was positive had served him at Balafala's Kitch-van after Filth. The room was small, dingy with damp invading the walls. Empty barrels littered the floor, restricting the space to pull back chairs from the table isolated in the middle of the room. Cramped round this table were a handful of fine looking young chaps, several of whom had buck-teeth that would have brought bullying from Bugs Bunny himself.
Quent introduced himself, only to be met by silence, staring, and yet more silence. He sat. At that moment, a tiny Napoleon-like figure strode purposefully into the room, also clad in khaki tie and long sleeved shirt, perched upon his fingers was a large platter of jelly. Despite Napoleon's best efforts to obtain a simple red jelly, the landlord's wife had insisted on doing something special - a three-layered, tricolour masterpiece. Napoleon's arm sent the work of art soaring, the clatter-splat shattering the silence as both hard and soft alike confronted the wall behind Quent's head. Wincing, and yet still smiling, Quent looked up in confusion. From nowhere, each member had plucked a pint of cherryade, all of which now sat in front of Quent. "Have no fear, Hunters," Napoleon said, "it's all sugar-free." Quent, unsure as to the best course of action, grasped the first and sent it flying towards the wall opposite the jelly stain. It was a source of some regret when the glass bounced off the table, soaking and stickying the blonde facing Quent. "Just drink, them, that'll be all." Sugar-free or non-sugar free, the six pints of cherryade contained more chemicals than South Park Road. Surging up from the depths of Quent's brain, came a headache, so pungent, so seering, that he felt sure of fainting. The cherryade initiation had taken over an hour, and The Culling Club's members were growing impatient. Silent, but impatient nonetheless.
"Bring forth the platter." Napoleon commanded his army of seven. And forth the platter came: first course, second course, third course, seemingly ad infinitum. And yet, all the same dish, Cottage Pie. Stacked three high on the table (somewhat smaller than had been anticipated) were over one hundred plates worth of the stuff, a Northern banquet. With the battlecry, "Let the cottaging being!" Napoleon, blissfully innocent of the phrase's true meaning, sent forward the first waive. Pouncing into the pub's main space, with hands full of creamed potato and Sainsbury's own brand mince, the Aristocratic aggressors attacked.
Quent, his thoughts still firmly on the contacts that might be made through bonds from over cottage pie, joined in. Merely ten minutes later, with The Trout redecorated, a middle-aged greying man, whom Quent could only assume to be the landlord, appeared from underneath a table, grabbing his shoulder. "Who's in charge of you lot?" Quent could only point at Napoleon. "It's quite alright, Sir, we can pay for damages, that was always the intention. Will £300 from each of us do?"
Sadly, it appeared that Napoleon was the only Culler capable of dishing out £300; each of the rest standing shocked, smothered in cottage pie, and feeling somewhat small. Each quite happy to give his name to the landlord, to be added to the newly-formed washing-up rota.
If you don't value the property of others call our free helpline. It's ours, not yours.
27th Jan 2005