The fluorescent blue jukebox looks like a hideously kitsch spaceship that has just landed in the Old Ale Emporium. It has replaced its older, more classic predecessor which was always seeping the melancholic voice of ColdPlay’s Chris Martins.
Jukebox V2 has mad bolts of lightening sketched on the sides and belts out songs with tacky, self assuredness whilst emitting artificial orbs of blue and white light. Jukebox V1 was red. I preferred the red one.
The jukebox isn’t the only piece of pub paraphernalia that has been upgraded. The early 90s ‘box-set’ TV which was loosely attached to the wall has been devoured by a 42 inch PLASMA SCREEN.
The old TV used to be rigged up to the pubs sound system and its audio would kick in once the jukebox had run out of credit. Often the owners would forget that the volume was turned up to the maximum and when the TV took over the sound system, whatever was on would blast across the pub. On Sunday evenings – international nature documentary day – the horrific sound of animals mauling themselves would oft shred the relaxed ambience.
Apart from these eye-sores and a few chair replacements, the Old Ale Emporium still looks pretty much the same. The ton of bric-a-brac attached to the ceiling still looks like it could fall down at any point and kill you. The carpet is still saturated with morose colours. The toilets are still a very inhospitable environment. And the owners, although they have changed, are yet another macabre, working-class reincarnation of the Adams family.
Weird-Off
My girlfriend and I try to assess if this new family are weirder than the last. The first family consisted of a bald, bulldog faced Irish man who spent his days sitting at the bar, drinking heavily and smoking Richmonds. Every now and again you would see him beating up North London scum or throwing out abusive South Africans.
His wife – about a foot taller than him and of a very voluptuous frame – would often forget to put on formal clothes. During peak drinking hours she would appear out of nowhere, dressed in a frilly nightie and pink slippers. She would shuffle around with a fag hanging from her mouth and clear the tables in a detached, dream-like state. You never saw them outside the pub.
They were like the couple in Betelgeuse – two ghosts shackled to their home by some supernatural arrangement.Their daughter, who was rapidly turning into her mother, was having a secretive affair with the pubs local DJ – DJ Sly Groover. DJ Sly Groover was a short, ratty looking guy with a ratty ponytail poking through the peaked cap welded to his head. He was also a terrible DJ with a massive ego.
Many nights he would deliver a set to a couple of punters and a mangy dog, but invest as much energy behind the decks as Fat Boy Slim playing Glastonbury’s opening night.Thinking back on it they were a pretty quirky lot.
But what about this new family? Are they contenders for the Old Ale Emporium wall of weirdness? This is my first assessment and all I can go on is looks. And, as sure as my name is Mark Rodseth and the sky is blue, they are not blessed with any.
Not to be nasty but this is one of the ugliest families I’ve ever seen.And in the odd cornerThe Landlord is clearly an avid football supporter, hence the plasma TV and Sky Sports schedule plastered all over the pub walls. (Arsenal if you must know). He has a proper skin head and primitive, inky black tattoos snake up his forearms and neck. He looks ‘ard and I wonder who would win in a fight if he went up against the last owner.
I watch him standing and smoking and defensively surveying the pubs clientele.His wife is a tiny, emaciated, Skeletor of a woman who probably smokes about sixty a day. It’s hard not to convey your sense of shock when registering her withered, gaunt, haunting features.
At first I thought she was a Manor House crack addict who accidentally stumbled into the pub, but when I saw the Landlord slap her bony arse I had to take a big gulp of Lager and perform an expertly executed quadruple take.Their son, in simple terms, is a moron. My girlfriend who sometimes struggles with English dialects had no hope when faced with his unintelligible vowel movement.
There is also a daughter, I think, but she seems vaguely normal – apart from the bolts protruding from her neck.We realise more anthropological analysis is required to make a judgement on the new family but we know we are looking at a heavyweight contender for the Wall of Wierd.
Adieu
The smoke of the pub is hard going for two recent ex-smokers so we head back home to burn our clothes. As my head hits the pillow I feel a sense of loss for the old owners and their strange quirks. As the esoteric dream world grips my mind I see them standing together arm in arm and slowly fading into the Old Ale Emporium’s smoke saturated atmosphere. And, just before they disappear, forever, ColdPlay reaches a morbid crescendo.
