The Regulars

Every pub has some.
But the definition of a regular goes beyond someone who merely drinks in the pub regularly. There needs to be a further element of dedication...or reliance.

When I worked in Benjamin Satchwell's (a Wetherspoon's in Leamington Spa) a couple of Christmases ago, I got to know the regulars there. The Wetherspoons chain is especially prone to accumulating regulars; older guys who come in, maybe with a book, take a seat and nurse a £1.25 pint of Summer Lightning for a few hours in solitary cogitation. That's the lone regular, anyway.
In Satchwell's there was a trio of these guys, who occupied one end of the bar and chatted amiably amongst themselves and half-heartedly attempted to chat up the barmaids whenever it was quiet. In the late afternoon they would pick up their hats and go their separate ways to their respective (and more expensive) local pubs, to make way for the louder heavy drinking crowd in the evening, when the pub became a heaving, smoky mass of humanity, most of whom were struggling to make their way to the bar.

They were such a fixture. In a way they helped to define the pub's character. In the couple of hours before they left in the evening, they would sometimes sing, quietly, old songs with women's names in the titles.
One year later I rang the pub for a reference.

Familiar Voice:Hello, Benjamin Satchwell's.
Me:Charlie?
Familiar Voice:Yes?
Me:Can I speak to someone who actually works there please?
Charlie:Certainly my good man. One moment...

Last night Alice and I had a wander into St. Albans.
Alice was so excited to actually be doing something social in the mid-week that we went into the loudest pub we could find. it was pretty empty, it being only about 8 o'clock, but a huge array of sound equipment and TV screens was emitting a barrage of noise.

Alice:(excitedly)It's Karaoke Night!
Me:(not) Wow, yeah, cool.

Quite how we managed to go from this opening dialogue to the point where I submitted a slip asking to perform Frank Sinatra's 'I've got you under my skin' is beyond my powers of recollection, but that's what happened.

My moment arrived, my name was read out and I made the walk of shame up to the booth, and when I got there, I was told that their Sinatra Karaoke CD was scratched. I went to sit down again.
A couple in late middle age sat down at the table next to us with two large glasses of white wine. The man, who was wearing the glossiest leather jacket I've seen outside of the stage rendition of Grease, leaned over toward me.

Jacketman:What did you want to sing?
Me:Oh, er Frank Sinatra's 'I've Got You Under My Skin', but their CD is scratched.
Jacketman leans back and reaches into his (in all probability polished) coat. he pulls out a wadge of CDs. He picks one out and hands it to me.
Jacketman:There you go.
Me: (in disbelief)Is this the karaoke version?
Jacketman nods. His wife and/or girlfriend beams at me from over her white wine. With pride.
Me:(as I return to the booth)Oh, er, well, thanks!

I sang.
Ish.

When I sat back down again we had a brief 'So, do you come here often then?' conversation. Allie accidentally killed it by saying that she'd only moved in on Sunday.
I can only assume that karaoke-obsessed Jacketman didn't want to talk about anything but his beloved Wednesday nights in the Peahen, because from that moment he sat in stony silence over his white wine, with his wife, until he got the call to go up and sing 'New York, New York'.

Allie and I left to go home and watch Teachers.