Pole Dancing With a Fish

Not the ‘pole dancer’s’ fish but a suitable substitute.

Late one Friday night

It was late and it was Friday, when all the bears come out to play. A busy night for the law keepers in our communities. The scenario to be described is true, perhaps aided by a touch of poetic license.

The hostelries were bustling, full to the gills as a witty observer once opined. From one such watering hole a local worthy emerged, intent on topping up with sustenance before heading back to continue his adventures back in that house of spirits. On slightly unsteady gait our worthy veered from the footpath into a popular fish and chip establishment. A short time he emerged into the cold early winter night, clutching in his left hand what looked like a massive fish supper, or, as referred to in some areas, simply fish and chips. Some might say ‘fries’. Mind you, it was difficult to be certain as it was skilfully wrapped in an old daily newspaper.

What was less difficult to ascertain was the condition of said worthy. He was in a condition that rhymed with ‘fished’.

Engrossed with task in hand, oblivious of his surroundings, head down, deep in concentration he considered his options. A chip or perhaps a piece of fish, or maybe both. Decisions, decisions.

He momentarily glanced up from his cerebrations and caught sight of the patrol car, or in this case, van. His survival instincts kicked in immediately. He had lived in this gritty community long enough to understand the rules and identify the dangers. He immediately, perhaps in an attempt to look sober, who knows, drew himself up to his full five foot six inches, head up and shoulders straight.

Was it was the weight of the fish supper in his left hand, or the sudden attempt to stand straight, we will never know, but whatever it was, he without warning started to oscillate from side to side.

He was standing, or to be accurate, swaying, right next to a lamp post. Suddenly and with an element of desperation, he threw out his arm in a kind of speculative lunge to grab said lamp post and steady himself. The fact that it was the hand innocent of the fish supper was probably more luck than judgement.

Whatever his motivations, rather out of kilter with his physical reality, his hand missed the post and the sway morphed into a sideways and out of control topple, resulting in his upper right chest coming into contact with said pole.

His position was now perilous and he instinctively wrapped his arm round his new friend, the lamp post. His movement, unfortunately for him, was not arrested and had merely altered course. Desperately hugging his saviour with one arm, the top half of his body urgently pitched forward causing his momentum to spin him round the pole and round and round, head leading, like a bizarre synchronised, slow motion pole dance routine, his body getting lower and lower.

His legs however had found a different rhythm, more ‘Dashing White Sergeant’ like, going twenty to the dozen as they fought to gain balance and traction. After three descending circuits of the pole and still closely attached, he seemed, for an instant, to have gained control. But momentum is a funny thing, difficult to simply stop it on a sixpence, a mass and velocity thing. Whatever the physics involved, he seemed, for an instant, to have mastered the situation and with a sudden look of triumph, straightened up, if a tad violently.

To no avail, he obviously had not considered all the factors and his top half now lurched backwards, wiping the look of triumph from his features. At that point and rather inconveniently for him, his legs seemed to give up the uneven struggle and in rather surreal fashion, shot out in front of him. A millisecond later his arse reached 'terra firma' and he kind of sat, still facing out towards his nemesis.

However physics had not yet given up on him and his momentum, not completely inert, finished him off with one final burst of energy, rent asunder his grip on the lifesaving lamp post, and threw him, rather urgently, onto his back, legs flailing in the air.

Despite all his body gyrations, the precious contents of the Guardian wrapper remained intact, as though the hand holding it had assumed the properties of a gyroscope. 

When last seen he had regained a modicum of balance and dignity and was sitting beside the pole, happily tucking into his precious brown sauce and vinegar soaked, Melanogrammus Aeglefinus and chips.

And life rolled on.