Leo Sayer

There are combinations in nature which, when combined, produce a wholly explosive mix. Chlorine and alcohol or acid and water are nothing compared to one of nature’s most spectacular combinations; Ray, Mike the Postman and free, strong European lager. Generally this combination is to be avoided like a South African prostitute with the horn, but sometimes it can work to your advantage. Before I decided to enter into any sort of contract with Rocker, it seemed wise to turn up the volume just to see how loud they could take it at the Club. However, Rocker had supplied Mike with some room tokens to legitimize a day of drinking in wooden panelled luxury. Handing over the sixty quid seemed more than good value for money and Ray and Mike route-marched past the golf buggies, leaning into the drizzle down the drive of the Club like the first two men on a mission to mars, only mars was the golfer’s bar that overlooked the eighteenth hole and the ladies' locker rooms. My only concern was that they would recognise Ray from the Alpha Course debacle but Ray assured me that his new 'moustache' would do the trick. To me it simply looked shit and itchy.

Both men when stood next to each other could be brothers. Both are dark and skinny. Ray, as you would expect, has something of the spiv about him, reinforced by the permawave Elvis quiff that sticks up like a stiff wave above his forehead. He is the man in the leather jacket and the high collars who can put any chemical into your bloodstream before breakfast. He is the man who sold you Liquorice Allsorts at Glastonbury and dog worming tablets at Reading. His heavily bandaged hand gave him a menacing edge. Mike on the other hand is far more sedate and hirsute as you would expect any modern postman to be. If Ray is the dealer, Mike is the smoker and the grower. Mike is the arcane knowledge font when it comes to hydroponics and growing ever stronger bud. Ray in contrast prefers booze and says he never touches the green stuff. "Makes you dull."

Mike can often be heard saying “I refuse to do wage a war of wits against an unarmed man” but more often he gets his words mixed up.

I could hear their conversation from a suitably shady corner of the bar and as I waited I pondered my surroundings. A huge glass wall cabinet embraced the room. One half of the cabinet appeared to be devoted to badly made trophies, photographs of 1970's television celebrities in the heady days when this club had real status. In those days, people regarded membership here as a social and economic achievement not just a direct debit. The second half of the cabinet was taken over with horse based memorabilia; jockey's shirts, photographs of horses and strangely assorted betting slips.

In summary, the bar had all the style of a Swiss cottage and the cheapest bed and breakfast in central London. I sipped my lager and baulked but in an expectant kind of way. In my admittedly small experience of golf based drinking venues, I had to conclude that I had yet to purchase any pleasant or well presented beverage.

I had instructed Ray and Mike to be loud from the outset. Two lady golfers behind me dressed in the baby colours of toothbrush pink and blue, had spotted Ray and Mike as soon as they had strolled in. Both were smoking for starters, a social crime in its own right at the Club. Within three minutes of their arrival a barrel chested man in a green sports jacket and radio came to have a chat with the nervous barman. He would remain rooted and leant into the bar, radio at the ready. It was the first sign. I looked up from my paper and over towards them, they could have only been

"Fuck off, you never did, she was as loose as a wizard’s sleeve." Both men leant back and laughed hysterically. This was how it always began. The first two thirds of any night out with Ray and Mike are virtually ideal. It is the last third where the problems usually begin. Mike and Ray ordered more and more and their volume intensified with the volume of cigarette smoke in the bar. Between them they appeared to be smoking a cigarette every four minutes, well within their target. They ordered more drinks, and since both were apparently guests of the hotel, they could not be refused and it just kept on coming.

"Mike mate, here's sumfing i've never unnerstood. You grow weed and shit, right."

"Right."

"And you use all them idroponks and ultra violent lights"

“Yeah.” It was all Mike could do to stop himself laughing. Ray was supposed to be the one who could hold his drink. The accident had probably taken it out of him.

“So why don’t you grow vegertables? I mean really fucken big ones, you could win competitions, I mean really big fucken competitions. Ginness Worlds Records. Hey what you fucken laughing at?” It had begun.

“Do you realize how much shit you’re actually talking right now Ray?”

Two bulldog faced twins had appeared from out the back of the bar. Once had a T-shirt on that said, “I take security seriously.” His brother’s T-shirt said, “Very seriously.” My instincts told me that Ray in particular would just see this as a challenge despite having half his hand missing.

“I gotta drop the kids off at the pool.” It took a while for Ray to decipher Mike’s foul code. He smiled to himself, took a lengthy drag on his supersize black market cigarette and then sneakily threw up in the aspidistra in the corner. He wiped his mouth with his bandage and looked back and met my eye. Ray was about to get up and blow my cover when there was a commotion from the back. A door flew open and the sweet skunk smoke filled the bar. Mike was being wrestled by the two short squat animals who were finding it difficult to get to grips with the bandy postman. I could see from where I was sat that Mike had clearly stubbed out his joint between one of the many rolls of fat on the back of Very Seriously’s neck. It is hard to resist diving in to help a friend in need, sometimes but today was an exception. Luckily for Mike, these two were as their cottonwear implied; professionals. In less salubrious surroundings, punches would have been thrown, fingers twisted and snapped, but at the Club, Mike was ejected forcefully, quickly and relatively painlessly. The only injuries, he had probably caused himself whilst thrashing about. Once outside, the twins nodded to themselves as if congratulating themselves on a job well done. Three more members of the security team along with a couple of the young golf pro’s piled into the bar as if someone was assaulting a family member. Mike dejectedly remained on his arse and dusted himself down. A wolf whistle. Mike span on his cheeks.

“You coming or what?” It was Ray. He was at the steering wheel of a white golf buggy that chugged then purred alternately as he revved it. Mike was on the back before the security could react and in seconds they were off down the drive heading towards the busy main road.