Pole Dancing With a Fish

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.

We say chips others say fries

But let us not venture down that alley. After 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 in some areas, simply fish and chips.

Mind you, it was difficult to be certain as it was skillfully 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, perhaps a balance thing. It was then he spotted the patrol car. His survival instincts were strong, and having lived in this community a long time, he understood the rules and 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. In an attempt to correct the sudden sway he threw out his right arm in what looked like a speculative and desperate lunge to grab hold of a nearby lamp post. 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 slow motion pole dance, 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.

Three circuits later he seemed to gained control and a look of triumph appeared on his face. But momentum is a funny thing, difficult to stop on a sixpence, a mass and velocity thing.

Suddenly his top half lurched backwards, wiping the smile from his face. His legs at that point kind of gave up the uneven struggle and in rather surreal fashion, shot out in front of him, causing him to land on his arse, facing out into the street.

But physics had not 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, throwing him, rather urgently, onto his back, legs flailing in the air.

Despite all his body gyrations, the precious contents of the newspaper 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.