The idea of raiding the pub
came about by chance. When closing the gate at number 3 Begonia Avenue one
night – the last house on my paper round – I decided, on impulse, to nip across
the road to The Dewdrop and buy a little treat for the traipse home.
The Dewdrop had three entrances
spread around its wide frontage; lounge to the left, public bar to the right, off
sales in the middle. A man was coming out of the off sales as I got there. Though
I caught the door before it shut, I cursed my luck when I spotted the backend
of a disappearing barmaid, as a long wait for service seemed likely if the pub
was busy. After perusing the chocolate bars and crisps in a
glass case on the bar, I switched my attention to a fridge near the door and selected a Midnight
Surprise choc ice. Two minutes of kicking my heels later, it dawned on
me that I needed to activate the bell. Thus, after opening the door a little – Ching-ching – and closing it again, the
barmaid appeared.
On the way home I got stuck
into my choc ice, a pale green minty ice cream coated in a thin layer of plain
chocolate. It was delicious – delicious enough to wish I had another, and how
easy it would have been, to have nicked an extra one. The more I thought about
it the more appealing the idea got. Good timing was all it needed and with my
papers delivered, I had a ready made swag bag. Someone with a bit of nerve
could clean out half the fridge, but dare I? Half the fridge, no, but an extra choc
ice certainly.
Operation Midnight Surprise was
triggered a day or two later when a lone customer entered the off-sales. Outside
I waited, loitering to one side of the door. Ching-ching went the chime, as the customer came out and I slipped
in before the door closed. As before, I found myself alone and
I didn’t mess about when I raised the lid on the fridge. Spotting an open carton
of Midnight Surprises, I scooped it up and dropped it in my bag. Then, after
activating the door bell to bring the barmaid, I made a token purchase and
left.
Nine choc ices! Bloody hell!
The first was delicious; the
second was not. I gave up on the third and threw it away when I suddenly felt
sick. The rest got shoved into a hedge at the top of Milstead Road, an act that brought its
own misery. My brothers and little sister would have loved such a treat but taking
them home was out of the question. Dad had a nose for things that weren’t right
and it wasn’t hard to imagine him denouncing me round the lughole. Just
thinking about it made me feel worse. Stricken with guilt and on the verge of
throwing up, I never wanted to see a Midnight Surprise again.
Gillingham’s
cup run ended with 2-1 defeat at Watford. As
one of the day’s less glamorous ties there was little media interest in the
game but I followed it as best as I could on TV and radio. It seemed the Gills
were never in it and the goal they scored, when it came, was only a late consolation.
A shame, as the FA Cup had given us a lot of excitement that year and
brightened a poor season. Meanwhile, George Best was making history, scoring
six times for Manchester United in an 8-2 win at Northampton.
Gillingham’s position in the league looked grim. Relegation
to division four seemed likely but Paul and I still had hope. Not enough to bet
tuppence on their chances of survival, but enough to keep faith in a team that
had driven us to drink. A bottle of cider was a rite of passage and something
we bought at Benhams off license on our way to a night match. From a position on
the Gordon Road
terrace near the Rainham End, we cheered the Gills to victory. The highlight of
the game was the bottle of cider, though I did get over exuberant at one point
when I clonked the bottom of the bottle as Paul was taking a swig – a piece of
tomfoolery that left Paul with a chipped tooth. (Thanks Paul, for jogging my
memory about this. Sorry about the tooth.)
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