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By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere were we're- welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. If there's one thing above all others that set's the Traveler's rest apart from other watering holes in our town, it's the fact that landlord Jack has made absolutely no attempt to follow the trend and turn his pub into a theme pub or even worse a thinly disguised restaurant, where regulars are definitely not welcome. No the only food you'll find in the Traveler's Rest are packs of crisps and peanuts, and frankly that's the way we like it. But it has to be said that there is one little jar of foodstuff that we like to keep hidden. It's Jacks secret weapon. I don't know how old it is now, but under the counter he keeps a large half empty dusty jar of pickled carrots. God know why it was pickled in the first place, or in what, for as sure as hell, those carrots were never picked in any known kind of vinegar I have ever come across, possibly it's an unknown type of rocket fuel. But to say it's hot is to put it mildly. The basic idea is that once a visitor has become a sort of regular, he has to be inducted into the gang. This involves one of our merry band, having been selected by the others, to engage the visitor in conversation, casually mentioning that Jack has a little something under his counter, and we'd all like him to try and guess what it is. The visitor, all unsuspecting, and after agreeing to help, stands by the bar, as Jack ceremonially slowly opens the jar well away from sight under the counter, to produce a small mouthful spiked on the end of folk, whilst as the same time drawing up two to three pints of his foaming best better. Silence then falls over the bar, as the initiate to wide grins all round takes a mouthful. It normally takes around thirty seconds to work it's magic, but the reaction is always the same for as the slice of pickled carrot slides it's way toward the stomach the victims face starts to redden up, as with a cry of "Jesus Christ," a strange choking sound is heard as the hand reaches out to grab the first of the three pints of best bitter that will be used to kill the heat and quench the tremendous thirst. As the victim slowly recovers, he is grandly informed that having passed the Traveler's Rest initiation, he is now a fully -fledged Regular, entitled to his first three pints free of charge, and seeing as how they have just passed down his throat, the next rounds on him. I well remember the night we unleashed the super carrot on poor old Charles, our trainee Village Idiot. We had been planning this for some time, ever since 'Sorry' Colin, (so called because of his habit of always saying sorry,) had conned the poor chap into collecting empty crisp packets. According to 'Sorry' Colin, one in a thousand had a secret number, which was worth £100 to the finder. For weeks no empty crisp packet was safe in the pub, being whipped away no sooner had the crumpled up remains landed in a ashtray. Even the towns other pubs were not safe from his collecting missions, where late evenings would see Charles creeping around the bars hunting that special and oh so hard to find empty money making crisp packet. Rumour even had it that Charles had box loads of full packets of crisps hidden away at home and was slowly working his way through them in his continuing hunt. So the time eventually came when it was decided to inflect the curse of the Pickled Carrot on him. Somehow the word got round the town, so on the evening selected it was a full house that gathered in the old 'Traveler's'. Even Chris the vicar turned up complete with the bell ringing team - a pack of lusty hard drinkers at the best of times. Jack of course was in seventh heaven puling pints ten to the dozen and beaming as only a Landlord on the make can. You could almost hear him boasting about how much ale he'd shifted at his next meeting of the Licensed Victuallers Association. It was a long wait, throughout the evening, various eyes would occasionally turn towards to door, but it was not until past ten, when with a sigh of relief from the assembled multitude, the door pushed opened and in wandered the town's unsuspecting trainee village idiot in all his glory. "Have a drink dear boy," cried Pete, having drawn the short straw for the honour. "Ta very much," said Charles clutching his mug. Lot of people in tonight isn't there," he asked. "Oh don't worry about them, nothing on the telly tonight, that's all." said Pete, quickly rescuing what could have been a bit of a tricky situation. By now the pub was quieting down for the big moment. "Er Charley," asked Pete casually, "we've got a little bet going that you might be able to help us out with," At this, Charles, with his curiosity aroused asked "help with a pub quiz question is it." He cried, hopping he could at last gain a place in the coveted pub team. "Er no, it's more to do with the old taste buds," cut in Pete, "all you have to do my old son, is to taste this little nibble that Jacks got here and tell us what you think it is." he concluded. "Doesn't Jack know," asked Charles in a rare attack of intelligence. "No, fact is Charley boy, said Pete, by now thinking hard for a reason, "fact is the stuff comes out of a jar, that's lost it's label. I reckon it's pickled mushy peas in there, but Russell over there, tends toward the pickled red pepper theory." At this, mummers of approval came from around the pub at this supreme act of fast thinking. Thus hooked, Charles was led forward for the great taste test. Up came the fork, into the mouth it went, and everyone waited for the expected result. It was quiet in that bar. Outside Brentwoods late night traffic hiss it's way along wet empty roads, whilst inside, the packed bar waited. One minute passed, then another and still no reaction. Then in a small strained voice Charles piped up, "I er think it's the mushy pea... but then again, it could be a pickled pepper, er any more," he said, gazing in wonder around at a pub roaring with laughter. After all only Charles our trainee idiot could pass the great Traveler's rest pickled Carrot test, and still ask for more. ENDS |
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