Thursday, 11 December 2008


The wayzgoose has been and gone. Chatting in Narrow St and stamping against the cold until the doors opened and then a vortex of faces and drink and talk and food and insightful conversation on the dark river walk to the next whisky bar, and then flinging out of the vortex and no memory of the road home. Twelve hours of such intensity that it passed in a second.

One can only hope there will be a 15th edition next year, but people move on or fade away, drink and madness picking them off. It was a celebration of something that was and as such it can't last forever and probably shouldn't.

Three incidents stand out. Firstly, the strange disappearance of Greyfriars Bobby. He was at my table and then we passed each other in the gents. A few minutes later his seat is still empty. Check the loo just to make sure his eyes hadn't rolled round in their sockets. No sign. Trot down to the bar. No sign. Go out onto the street. No sign. A hour or so later, a text explaining that he had pressing business though giving no details. All most mysterious.

Second, a disgraceful low tackle by Gaffer on the Mystery Blonde. Who the hell was she anyway to come flouncing in, flirting and chatting? Apparently, she was weighing up the dining room as a venue for a bankers' lunch, though I should think that having her arse felt has put her off and cost the landlady a few quid. Thank God Gaffer didn't go for double top - a fight would surely have broken out. The saintly Mrs Sew & Sew fired him into line, extracting the necessary apology which Mystery Blonde and landlady accepted. Later, shamefaced Gaffer exits early...pantomime villain getting his comeuppance.

Which brings us to the third singularly curious feature: how quickly it broke up. After the food, we moved down to the bar, most in the front, some in the back. Suddenly, there was no noise from the front. Gaff, Daisy, Girvan, Ellard, Trimboli, the Chief Inspector, even Brucie, all just gone. Bugger me.

This morning, Ander on the phone wanting to do the autopsy: "Such and Such is so improvident, Such and Such has knackered his liver, Such and Such is deaf and daft, Such and Such is still a ****, Such and Such is still sex on a stick." He's more of a bloody old gossip than I am.