FROM MONSALVAT TO DERBY

So there I was yesterday morning, sitting in the courtyard of my local bar enjoying the sunshine on my face and listening to Radio 3 on my headphones whilst reading an esoteric analysis of German opera, specifically a chapter on Wagner's Parsifal. With the entire place to myself it was as quiet as Monsalvat, that mythic castle of the grail with only the gentlest early spring breeze to keep me company. I must confess I had also acquired the fattest Pain Au Chocolat I'd ever seen, a sort of GM looking pastry that appeared to be all pumped up on steroids like a over zealous body builder. It sat perfectly next to my Americano in its Ozu-red like coffee cup and so out came my iPhone to pap it for my instagram story. I'm not so lofty that I don't ignore a good IG story opportunity when it comes along.

Then, contemplating the solemn atmosphere of Good Friday, I closed my eyes and thought about the sanctity of this sacred day. Just moments before arriving in the bar, I had found myself following a Salvation Army's slow procession down the high street as they carried a wooden replica cross of Christ through the town. I only walked with them for about a minute or two but it felt as if due deverence had been paid to Jesus for my sins.

Listening to Vaughan Williams 'Serenade To Music' and soaking up all the Vitamin D I possibly could, my island courtyard of peace felt much needed and I wondered if this could become a regular ritual for me now the warmer weather had arrived and the sun had finally remembered to show up again after turning its back on England for the best part of what seemed like six months.

And then, without any warning, a swarm of around a dozen bulky looking lads burst through the double doors leadng out into the courtyard swinging their pints and walking with a Liam Gallagher-like swagger toward me as if we had pre-arranged a meeting.

"You alright mate?!" one of them said to me in a boisterous fashion, almost spilling his pint of Stella over my book on opera.

"Yeah. I'm alright. You alright?"

"Yeah mate, yeah."

"You ever been to Derby, mate?"

I took a moment to think about it before answering him.

"Yeah, I think so."

"It's a shit hole isn't it?"

Nodding without verbally confirming his bold statement, I didn't think it would be a good idea to disagree with him at this early stage of our relationship.

"Is this Nailsworth?"

"No. It's Stroud."

"It's lovely down here. Maybe we'll all move down here. Get away from the shit hole."

Then another Orc-looking creature from Derby approached me, squinting with the sun in his eyes and said, pointed at me accusingly, "Oi, you've got all the sunshine to yourself. You don't mind us joining you do you?"

Again, not wanting to contradict the muscle bound young man, I said "no", not entirely sure whether I meant it or not. It was an involuntary spasm of the tongue that answered not my own mind. One thing was certain. I was no longer in Monsalvat. These were Derby rules we were playing by now.

"What you all doing down this way?" I asked as the herd all turned as one like the giant blazing eye (red eye in this case) of Sauron, the lone southerner amongst the northern tribe.

"Derby, mate. They're playing Forest Green."

Football always offers a safe passage with drunken men looking for a fight. If you can talk the basics, it's as good as having your own security team surrounding you and I can talk football bullshit until the cows come home.

At this point, with my man-passport clearly stamped in their minds, I felt confident to speak more elaborately and so struck a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. I have to say it must have been quite a sight as I'd gone from being all alone to suddenly being sandwiched between two blocks of Derby fans like something out of a Damon Runyon style scene - Guys and Dolls etc

"You play football yourself?" I asked the guy next to me.

"Yeah, mate. I used to play for Derby in the reserves."

Whipping out his phone to show me a highlights reel of his goals in training, I congratulated him on his short lived career playing for Derby reserves.

Then, in an absurd display of camaraderie with him, I decided to regale him Robert Shaw-style about my ankle break playing football in a local shit kicker's game I used to enjoy every wednesday evening on the common. Barring showing him the actual injury by putting my leg up on the table he seemed suitably impressed with my sacrifice for the beautiful game.

"Fair play, mate. Fair play."

I'd earned my spurs amongst these lads and could sit comfortably knowing I would hold my own.

"What do you do, mate?" the ex-Derby reserves player asked me.

"I'm a failed writer", I stated in a a declaration of self deprecating pretentiousness.

"Oh yeah?"

Cutting to the chase I told him about a few of my trevails in the film business with the various option deals that never materialised into actual productions and how I had not so long ago been working on a bio-pic mini-series based on the life of heavyweight champion boxer of the world, Shannon Briggs.

"You won't believe this but I'm a boxing promoter."

"Really?"

Telling me of some of the fairly big names on his books.  I'd been preparing a boxing project myself all week and so it seemed as if there was a sort of serendipity in our meeting. Time will tell, I suppose.

Then he asked me who my current favourite boxer was to which I replied, "Erroll Spence Jr". This impressed him enough to then call over some of his boxing mates to introduce me to.

"This fella's into his boxing, John!"

John looked like he just escaped Belmarsh and put out his hand to shake mine as if sizing up my fists for a scrap right there and then in the courtyard.

"Bloody hell! Look at them hands. You could do some damage with those!"

"He's a writer, John."

"That's what I mean!"

Cue laughter as the bond was rapidly deepening. Ironically, it was at this point the landlord came out to clear some empties off our table and looked at me as if I was in a hostage situation. I tried to allay his concern by smiling but he didn't look convinced.

I stayed talking with the boys for another twenty minutes or so before leaving when I was presented with a messy sort of guard of honour with all of the Northern tribe inisting on shaking my hand.

"I hope Derby beat Forest" I said as my closing line; they roared in unison like extras in a sword and sandals movie.

Stepping back out onto the street, I laughed to myself as I thought of the contrast between my initial serene meditation in the courtyard to how it ended up. It sort of reminded me of that meme you see everywhere these days on social media.

How it started ...

How it's going ...

Actually, to be fair it was going pretty good.

Jesus may have died for our sins. But some of us have to live with the sinners. Myself included.