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Poetry

At rush hour, as office workers poured into their cars and hit the road, only to move at snail's pace towards their homes, our walk could be made unpleasant by the density of exhaust fumes, but the reward, a pint of beer, cold and sparking, hand drawn by old Splicer or one of his pretty bar staff, and good conversation with an amorphous group of companions, was worth the effort. Especially on a night such as this.

England were playing an important international soccer match which would be screened on one TV channel, the ninety minutes action stretching to almost three hours to allow for pre - game analysis, post game debate, action replays of the highlights, interviews with players and coaches and a fashion item about what designers and hairdressers the players' wives and girlfriends favoured. Plus the commercial breaks of course. Other channels always reran very very old films on such nights and in all pubs and bars the drinkers would be clustered round the TV, only one topic of conversation being allowed. The Gilded Lily, always dedicated to drinking and talking, was a haven for those not interested in sport. As we plodded on Zoggs chattered about the latest scientific bee-in-his-bonnet.

"So this Frenchman OK, he's utterly discredited in the scientific community but is not bothered because he thinks he's onto something and will be vindicated eventually." My companion was trying to explain the nature of some experimental work being carried out on the fringe of science where the weird meets the incontrovertibly loony "And anyway, he's succeeded but there's all these professional sceptics, failed conjurors, establishment lackeys and the like queuing up to shout fraud, only if you think about it the whole thing is feasible." Zoggs was a scientist, his job in one of the major hospitals involved doing tests on bits of dead people which if you think about it must get as boring as being an accounts ledger clerk "you can see it can't you?" he asked enthusiastically.

"Dunno, run it past me again." He talked me through the theory that information can be encoded in energy and that water, being the only inorganic substance to exist in liquid form at atmospheric temperatures is the best medium to record information until we can unravel and reassemble atoms, not just smash them to bits like nuclear reactors do, but take them to pieces and actually put them back together. The Frenchman in question had recorded a picture of his hand, then printed it and sent it round the world on the internet. Zoggs found this really exciting. "so you see, there is the scientific process that explains the feasibility of ghosts and telepsychic activity."

"How do you arrive at that conclusion. I mean, how does this thing work."

"Well you stick you hands in a bucket of water and swunch them around..."

"Swunch?"

"Yeah, its a scientific term. Sort of a mixture between a swish and a scrunch," he mimed the two actions, "that makes sure every molecule of water has flowed through the cosmic energy side emissions from your hands. Each atom of tissue leaves its imprint in the water. And all you have to do is build a receptor sensitive enough to transpose it into digital information.

"What? I'm not getting this. What happens? #How does this picture get into the water?"

"OK. You know homeopathy yeah? You treat an illness with something that causes the same symptoms. Only as these things are usually really really toxic they have to be diluted exponentially. You get one drop of stuff and nine drops of water and give it a good shake to make sure it is well mixed and every molecule of water has physically contacted a molecule of substance. Then you take one drop of that mixture and nine drops of water and repeat the process. Then again and if necessary again. So eventually what you are giving the patient is so dilute there is none of the original stuff in what they swallow, just a memory of it stored in the atoms of oxygen and hydrogen. A ghost of the medicine. But it works, people respond to treatment. The shadow of the substance's energy acts on the body's atoms and our defence mechanisms start to fight it."

"How? By dying? That's a response."

"Oh come on, you are always talking about this kind of supernatural, phycic stuff in the Gilded Lily. You must believe in Ghosts."

Talking about it and believing it are not quite the same of course.

"I saw one about five years ago - a ghost," said the Bagman who had been gradually catching us up for a while.

Zoggs perked up. "You believe in the supernatural? It's scientifically feasible that spirits affect us all don't you think?"

"Could be. They say Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder."

The Bagman was noted for off the wall and unconnected remarks. His presence in any conversation was greatly valued because of his ability to turn thought chains round and send them in another direction before the more pedantic conversants had chance to become boring.

"You SAW a ghost? Did it talk? Have arms and legs? A face? What time of day was it? Had you been inhaling cleaning fluid?" Now Zoggs was scientific, wanting facts, equations, evidence. Bagman told his stories in a desultory way. It could take most of the next week to discover what he actuaslly saw. Bagman was an antiques restorer and often accused of making illicit use of the fluids and potions of his trade. I decided to widen the scope of the discussion.

"Have any of you seen the old guy in Victorian period costume who comes in the pub?"

"What, top hat, opera cloak, sort of flumpy lips like a little debauched cupid, always wears a green flower in his cloak? Bagman asked.

"That's him, yeah."

"Can't say I have. Not like actually seen him that is, not like I see you guys now. I've had like an impression of him, but not actually seen him. You know, you sort of see something on the edge of your vision but when you look its gone."

"Men in black, the angel of death? Zogg's chose to play the cynic.

I was about to add that I had spoken to the mysterious figure several times but only briefly, he seemed to disappear after dropping a very apposite comment into a conversation. My interjection was drowned by a group of young men heading for the city centre, all wearing football shirts and chanting Ing-Ur-Lund Ing - Ur - Lund. Football and good diction have never been close companions.

Most bars with a regular clientele tend to be cliquey. Particular cliques have their own tables, certain barstools or places on a bench are worn into the shape of a specific set of buttocks and an evening can be thoroughly ruined by the souring of atmosphere that results from somebody sitting in the wrong place. Craving for the security of familiar things is a blight on urban civilisation. People gather in the same place, say the same things, leave at the same time. The Gilded Lily had escaped infection. Conversations took on a life, attracted their own tribes, people would join and leave a table at random, flitting between diverse companies. The topics too were unconventional. Normal pub conversations are constrained by strictly gender related parameters. Men talk about football and sex. Women talk about men and sex. It is considered socially unacceptable to talk about politics, culture or religion as the risk of being embarrassed by the revelation of an unorthodox opinion is too great. People stay with what is safe.

Conversation is a game really. One of those children's street games that children are no longer encouraged to play because sociologists would rather they spent their free hours being molested by the local paedophile or indulging in creative pastimes like setting fire to old people and animals. The one I'm thinking of is where we would all stand in a circle and try to keep a ball in the air. You could use any part of your body but you could not catch or hold the ball. What was it called? No matter, conversation should be like that, but with ideas. Keep an idea in the air using any form of words you like. And when the game is over everybody remembers the feeling of playing but nobody remembers who said what. In the Gilded Lily conversation was like that, words were toys not social weapons. You could say that all organised religion should be made illegal and an atheist would challenge your point. The place was an intellectual gym.

The place had really filled with refugees from football and it was difficult to attract the landlord's attention but when he did come our story did not surprise him.

"I reckon we should just stop talking about this guy" Marley said, "and when somebody sees him, get hold of his collar and ask who the hell he is. But let's not waste any more time talking about him"

"There is only one thing worse than being talked about and that is not being talked about." It was the voice that had spoken before and to each one around the table it seemed to come from just next to them. When we looked though, the same person was there as had been all evening. I closed my eyes and saw, clearly printed on the fresh blackness, an image of a green carnation.

"This is spooky," Dwyfor said, "you know who said that don't you? Oscar Wilde. And who wore a green carnation. Oscar Bloody Wilde, that's who."

"Its somebody playing tricks, Bagman said, "I mean why would Oscar Wilde be poncing about in the Gilded Lily?"

"I remember, when I had the lead role in The Infanta de Castille, a swashbuckling romance set in the sixteenth century dears,..."

"....filmed in the sixteenth century" Bagman whispered

"....Marcel Strayne should have been my leading man but he broke his ankle jumping out of the writer's bedroom window. His wife had come home early you see....

"....Marcel's wife? How did she know he was...."

"....no the writer's wife, darling. The legendary Marcel Strayne, superstud of the British film industry was a screaming queen. Anyway Marcel's injury put him out of action for three months by which time he was contractually obliged to do a season in pantomime and his place was taken by Sterling Argent who was over sixty and playing the lover of a seventeen year old. My story though concerns a cast member, a very old man who played the king's great uncle. This was in nineteen fiftymmph - flmph well, about nineteen seventy dears, and he told a story actors used to tell when he was a boy. It was said that on the first night of a new play in the West End the ghost of Oscar Wilde would often appear. If the production was well received at final curtain the ghost would clearly be seen from the proscenium, usually sitting on the balustrade of the dress circle and leading the applause. If however the script was a dud then the apparition would leave at the intermission...."

"Bloody poetic isn'it; when she's in full flow." Dwyfor provided the aside in a stage whisper.

"You see the ghost is attracted by wit and stimulating conversation, imagination and original ideas, because that is how Oscar channeled his energy, so there it no reason why it would not find its way here."

"You don't believe that twaddle do you?" I asked

The voice broke in again "The old believe everything, the middle aged suspect everything and the young know everything" The Infanta pulled a face on working out she was the OLD referred to.

Most bars with a regular clientele tend to be cliquey. Particular cliques have their own tables, certain barstools or places on a bench are worn into the shape of a specific set of buttocks and an evening can be thoroughly ruined by the souring of atmosphere that results from somebody sitting in the wrong place. Craving for the security of familiar things is a blight on urban civilisation. People gather in the same place, say the same things, leave at the same time. The Gilded Lily had escaped infection. Conversations took on a life, attracted their own tribes, people would join and leave a table at random, flitting between diverse companies. The topics too were unconventional. Normal pub conversations are constrained by strictly gender related parameters. Men talk about football and sex. Women talk about men and sex. It is considered socially unacceptable to talk about politics, culture or religion as the risk of being embarrassed by the revelation of an unorthodox opinion is too great. People stay with what is safe.

Conversation is a game really. One of those children's street games that children are no longer encouraged to play because sociologists would rather they spent their free hours being molested by the local paedophile or indulging in creative pastimes like setting fire to old people and animals. The one I'm thinking of is where we would all stand in a circle and try to keep a ball in the air. You could use any part of your body but you could not catch or hold the ball. What was it called? No matter, conversation should be like that, but with ideas. Keep an idea in the air using any form of words you like. And when the game is over everybody remembers the feeling of playing but nobody remembers who said what. In the Gilded Lily conversation was like that, words were toys not social weapons. You could say that all organised religion should be made illegal and an atheist would challenge your point. The place was an intellectual gym.

"What can I do for you good people?" Old Splicer had taken a break from serving and walked over. The new barmaid, not the prettiest but the most curvaceous, was passing, collecting empty glasses and gave a squeal as the old man's lecherous fingers found her bottom. Any other employer would have faced a charge of sexual harassment but the plump, red - faced old man with sidewhiskers more like beef ribs than lamb chops seemed to get away with such things.

"Have you ever had a pet while you have been here?" Zoggs asked.

"Pet. Oh yes. I tried cats and dogs. First time they put their nose in the bar here they'd set to howling, their fur would stand up and they'd take off."

"Do you think they sensed a presence," asked The Infanta.

"Sensed my toe up their arse. Can't be doing with animals in the bar. Somebody might trip over 'em."

"Splicer, have you seen somebody in here wearing an Opera cloak, a Top Hat and a green carnation in his buttonhole." I asked.

Splicer gave a dirty laugh. "Been annoying you has he?"

"No, but - well, we've all sort of almost see him but not quite."

"Don't you take no notice of him good people. He'll not do you no harm."

"We're not bothered about him, but who is he? I don't wish to drink with a zombie," the Bagman said.

"I've never had chance to speak to him, it's always busy when he comes in, but I have the impression he's some sort of writer or critic."

"To criticise requires no talent, that is why there are so many critics." the mystery voice said.

"I been meaning to have a word with you sir - where's he gone. Where did he go?" Splicer looked around, as confused as the rest of us. "You know, I never seen the bugger with a drink in his hand, not once." He returned to the bar vowing to pin down the stranger before the night was over.

"So that's Oscar Wilde. I reckon he must have done a lot of drinking and carousing in here and his body energy emissions permeated the fabric of the place." Zoggs was bursting to show he had a scientific answer for the phenomenon.

"Ghosts and Zombies are totally different." Marley explained to Bagman, " ghosts can be quite cultured whilst even the most sophisticated zombies cannot desist from decomposing in polite company."

"Of course when I played Lady Bracknell at the Walsall Hippodrome...."

"The premises are unusually lively tonight." the voice said.

I looked to my left and though I could feel the Infanta's shoulder pressed against mine Mr. Wilde was sitting between us.

"There is a football match on television, all the other bars are showing it. This is the only place left in the area that does not have a television set, electronic games or piped music," I answered.

"And what is Television?"

I explained as briefly as possible to a man who had died in 1901. He had a little problem getting his head round the concept of talking pictures.

"The twin beauties of pictures are that they neither age nor talk. I believe those two things to be linked. Nothing ages one quite so much as dull conversation."

"But television is not just talking pictures. It is images of real people. Actors, comedians, singers. We can watch them from around the world." Dwyfor was trying to be helpful.

"Ah, a box for mummers. It has some worthwhile purpose then. And this football match. A gang of uneducated artisans chasing a ball round a muddy field? The insensate in pursuit of the inanimate."

"It's an international match. England are playing Holland."

"Really? There is something admirable about the Dutch; I have never known quite what but there is sure to be something."

Ghostland had not caught up with political correctness then.

"Do you think your notoriety would make you a media celebrity in modern times Mr. Wilde?" the Bagman asked, proving he could see the ghost too.

"Unfortunately I cannot answer as time does not trouble the place where I exist. No sane person should ever contemplate trading an hour's notoriety for a lifetime of respectability."

Some football fans passed the window "Ing - ur - land, Ing - ur - land," they chanted and the ghost asked what was happening but being Irish and from the past could not understand the nationalistic fervour the England team aroused in supporters.

"To be Irish is a state of mind," he commented, "to be English a state of deprivation but I see black men and a Parsee wearing the team equipage. Why is that?"

"We have a multicultural society now," the Infanta explained.

"Multiculturalism? What a ludicrous concept. The vast majority of people struggle to cope with one culture."

Since joining our conversation Oscar was providing all the best lines and winning our game of intellectual keepie - uppie (that was what the game was called, in the streets where I grew up at least.) I suppose we were a bit overawed. Even so we were parrying the epigrams and maintaining the pace of our talk when a sudden hush fell on the room. Two burly young men had carried in a wide screen television and were setting it up on a stand so it could be seen from anywhere in the bar.

"Sorry friends, brewery orders, old place has got to move with the times." Splicer answered the protests.

"...get rid of it...."

"...come here to get away from tele..."

"...selling out for the corporate gold...."

"...will kill the place you see..."

Everybody spoke at once until Splicer held up his hands. " Please everybody, Gennelmen, PUH-LEESE," the room fell silent, "I been thinking for a while its time for me to retire, had over to new blood..."

"Nooo Splice" somebody shouted and a chorus of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow struck up."

The old man held up his hands for silence again. "I been in this pub near half a century, its time I had a break. Now unfortunately the deeds insist that on selling it I must offer the Brewery first refusal at market price. And, knowing a good thing they did not refuse. Much as I would have liked to see the old whatsit - quo carry on, my hands are tied." Splicer shrugged.

"We'll throw the buggers out, we'll occupy the premises, stage a sit - in," someone called.

A hoot of support for the speaker went up and the crowd began to advance on the Brewery men, aiming to throw the television out into the street. At that point another six hardcases who had sat unobtrusively in a corner all stood in unison and one, reaching into a sports bag passed out baseball bats.

"Now ladies and gentlemen" said the leading hardcase. "No need for unpleasantness. We know you all love this place but everything must change. Adapt to change, embrace it, learn to love the new. This is the future. We live in a global village. The brewery has many plans, a Tex - Mex restaurant, a dance area with guest DJs three nights a week, an internet cafe in the lounge bar. You will not need to make hidle conversation no more, you will be entertained." SLAP The man slapped the solid wood of his bat against the palm of his hand to emphasise the implicit threat. "As of yesterday this pub became the property of the brewery. Mr Splicer hands over to a new manager next week." SLAP, SLAP.

The tension evaporated as the lovers of the Gilded Lily realised that resistance was futile.

"That's it then, no more conversation, no more juggling with ideas," Dwyfor complained."

"Electronic games, techno music, Chilli. I expect they'll be having Karaoke nights too. We'll have nowhere to go, nowhere to meet and talk." Marley said, the dejection in his voice summing up how we all felt. Then the other voice sounded.

"On an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one's mind, it becomes a pleasure."

And the ghost of Oscar Wilde walked through the table and me and standing proudly in the centre of the room, watched by everybody, pointed his silver -topped walking cane and with an unknown energy lifted the television from its stand and hurled it against the wall.

"To kill an idea is a greater a sin than to kill a human being. Ideas are what raise us above the animals, imagination links us to the divine. Kill ideas and imagination and you commit genocide against the GODS!"

"I'm sorry mate, I wouldn't know anything about hideas, I just follow hinstructions. Now you haven't left me no choice." The lead hardcase nodded to his men who advanced on the ghost, flailing their baseball bats at nothing. Bottles began to explode on the shelves behind the bar, beer pipes were torn from the taps and the pressurised contents of barrels surged up from the cellar to shower the panicking mass of people. The hardcases were giving each other a good working over as the apparition shifted constantly.

Oscar had grown. His Top Hat now disappeared through the ceiling as he directed the exploding bottles, shattering glasses and snaking beer pipes in an alcoholic version of the Sorcerer's Apprentice.

The lead hardcase, face bloodied by many blows and an arm hanging broken at his side, pulled himself upright. "I don't know who you are mate and these special effects are better than anything I've seen on TV, but it will do no good. The Brewery is part of a global corporation and they will make things happen their way. In a way you done us a favour. Now the place is messed up nobody can object when we tear the guts out of it and rebuild.

"My last refuge from witless death, from the endless prattling of other worldly bureaucrats endlessly recording and collating our sins and misdemeanours, the one remaining place where minds were free to wander through a universe of thought, a Galaxy of ideas, without the enslaving influence of the money - grubbers, stock jobbers, Philistines, Nincompoops and small businessmen. Did you not realise what treasure you had, not understand that erudition has more worth than gold. Do you not know that thoughts are precious lode, witticisms gemstones, I was surrounded here by diamonds of repartee, satire and invective were rubies and emeralds, crystals of hyperbole and litotes sparkled like sapphires and opals. Puns and wordplay were as topaz, amethyst, chalcedony and amber. This was my last home, my refuge from universal mediocrity and now, small minded conformists have taken it from me. Must variety be banished in the interests of the balance sheet, and all things be the same, must each life fit a template?

With a thrust of his cane Oscar blew out the wall separating the bar from the washrooms. Somehow the law of gravity went into reverse and raw sewage fountained out of the toilets. Taps exploded and brown slime gushed out.

"Bit theatrical now," Zoggs said.

"He's been watching Hollywood horror pix. The exploding toilets were a bit over the top though." Dwyfor agreed.

The Infanta thought Oscar had true style as she tried to shelter all of us with her elegant but ineffectual umbrella. "Darlings, let's not forget Oscar invented over - the - top."

"What are you going to tell the insurance men Splice?" Marley asked.

"Not my problem, signed a contract yesterday, banked the cheque this morning."

"Did you organise this then? Get a special effects crew in, as a sort of revenge on the Brewery?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

People crowded for the door trying to escape the showering sewage, the stench and the chaos. We sat tight, fairly sheltered in our alcove. Splicer had taken refuge under our table with his two barmaids and managed to keep a hand on each one's breasts throughout.

Then it was over. Oscar, now so big his head was touching the ceiling and his feet somewhere under the floor in the cellar lifted his cane one last time.

"The demons Smallminded and Unimaginative will win the day if you do not fight them. I can do no more. The spirit of Oscar Wilde is banished from this place and will not return. Goodbye." And with a blinding flash of light he was gone.

I stood up, wiped a speck of something from my cheek and decided I would rather not look at it.

"We'll not see anything like that again for a while," the Zoggs said.

He and I started for the door and the others rose to follow. As I made my way through the mess something caught my eye and I bent to pick up a crushed, dirty Green Carnation.

THE END