Saturday

I’ve written about Saturdays during the day in Taps before, but I don’t think that I’ve ever really spoken about the small things which, for me, make it so special – especially in the summer, or, as was the case this weekend just gone, an early summer’s day in mid spring.

Now, the first things to say about warm summer’s days is that you can pretty much guarantee that the Taps will be almost totally empty until it starts to turn a little chilly in the evening, as most of those people inclined to have a drink will either be at BBQ’s or in beer gardens, rather than sat in a dark cave like bar doing the crossword and watching foreign television.

And second, that the windows at the front will be open, and that therefore, as the afternoon wanes slowly on, that the bar will be cast in a beautiful liquid amber glow which changes in depth and warmth and colour as time slowly wanders on, and the brass and metal taps and handles will glow and shine, and cast dark shadows over the bar surface.

Honestly it is rather stunning.

Hang on, let me rephrase; if you love the Taps, you’ll find it stunning.

Well, hang on, let me rephrase again; if you love the Taps, and don’t particularly have a wide frame of reference, you’ll find it stunning.

Oh alright, let me rephrase again; if you love the Taps, don’t particularly have a wide frame of reference and have a particularly whimsical taste for finding beauty in the mundane and ordinary, then you’ll find it stunning.

Which is to say that I find it stunning.

I genuinely love it. There’s a quiet and a stillness that embodies everything I love about daytime drinking.

But then there are the other things which I love about Saturday’s. It was Grand National Day on Saturday – which is always quite fun. The Taps had two sweeps going which I’d put in for, and had also put £10 on a tip which Irena had received from the betting shop manager. We all watched the race down the end (Spurs were playing and as such take precedence over anything short of…well actually now that I think about it it’s short of nothing. I mean we actually have recently had earthquake, tsunami, riot and war, and we weren’t even allowed to put on Sky News on a slow Tuesday night when there actually was no domestic sport on – or customers in -, let alone during a Spurs game), tickets clutched in hand - including this American guy named Gerry (who, I suppose is now a regular and who I occasionally talk to when I’m outside smoking), who was witnessing his first Grand National, and in honour of which seemed to have bet on half the horses in the race.

It made me laugh though after the second fence when half a dozen horses had gone over quite badly and he looked around at everyone cheering and asked, ‘so this is what the English do for fun, huh?’

Anyway, that was nice – of course it was made even better that I won (I’ve now won on two of the last four nationals now, which can’t be a bad record). In fact it seemed that all the right people (by which I suppose I mean hatch regulars) won on Saturday. Irena and I both won on her tip. Gareth came first in one of the sweeps, and Colin the other. Daryl had a place on one and Laura B places on two.

However in an odd flight of trust and (possibly) bad judgement, Irena and I gave our tickets to American Gerry (who had also won) to take to the bookies to collect our winnings. Which was fair enough until he still hadn’t come back after half an hour and Mark, Daryl and Dan started winding us up saying that they’d just seen him get into a cab and tell the driver to take him to Spearmint Rhino.

[Rest assured Dear Readers, that he did eventually return – although, by which time, both Irena and I had started to worry that he had indeed done a runner, and it was getting quite difficult to laugh off the joking that he wasn’t coming back. It turns out that he’d actually just decided to stay in the betting shop and bet away half of his own winnings]

Irena was doing the split shift, so Casey started at five and was fetchingly (though inexplicably) bewigged in crimson, and for reasons known best to herself wanted to see what everyone looked like with it on. Naturally, and with the inevitable flawed judgement of the slightly inebriated we – which is to say, Murray, Terry, Sarah, Joe, John, Jimmy, Colin and myself (now there’s a collection of oddballs for you) all agreed to not only try it on in turn, but to also…let….her…take pictures (I’ve actually only just remembered the taking pictures part).

Hmmm.

And those are Saturday’s. Not for everyone, I have no doubt. Maybe they shouldn’t really be for anyone. Not anyone normal anyway. But they do for me.

They do for me.