Hamish Champ: Signs of getting old. Pt 4
Like I or not - and I'm not sure I do - a number of things are increasingly telling me I'm getting old. Partial deafness, mental infirmity and a new-found intolerance of the young are just three.
There are others, of course. My reflexes certainly aren't what they used to be. An altercation with a stretch of South London tarmac after a tumble from my motorcycle a fortnight ago is ample evidence of that.
But what has really done it for me in the growing aged stakes was a visit to a certain bar this past weekend.
Now I'm not one to point the finger, a virtual impossibility with the damned cast that now encases my left hand, but there was something amiss from the moment I entered the place.
Don't get me wrong; it was a decent enough establishment, replete with beers of high quality and staffed by individuals of a well trained and hospitable disposition.
No, what did it for me was the noise in the place. Not loud music, mind. I've no problem with loud music anyway, since I've seen enough bands to render me stone deaf several times over: Deep Purple; Motörhead; Black Sabbath; AC/DC; Blue Öyster Cult; Led Ze(That's enough. Ed.).
No, the issue was loud punters.
Perhaps it was because I arrived at the place, early evening, in a state of out and out sobriety. Or perhaps it was because the people in question had been drinking since the moment the cock decided to crow his cry of rejuvenation at a new day.
Either way these people were LOUD. And while the name of the gaff shall remain anonymous for me it will from henceforth be known as The Shouty Bar. Everyone was at it.
Braying, guffawing, whinnying. You name it, people were shouting at the tops of their voices. Never mind ear-splitting music, I feared for the health and safety of the staff because of the shoutiness of it all.
Of course it's a free world, and I would be lying if I laid claim to never having been a part of a party that found itself irritating the heck out of neighbouring tables because it was being loud and perhaps dare I admit it, obnoxious.
There's a place for noise, bustle and general hubbub. And often I'm all for it.
But being in the vicinity of such high-ended high-jinks made me realise that sometimes I long for peace and quiet.
Sometimes one just wants to retire to somewhere where the only noise is the low conversational hum of one's compatriots and a jukebox where the volume knob has been broken off at '3'.
Now, where's me Horlics?
