Brown sauce

Rex enjoyed a drink. Many a happy hour was spent discovering new drinking-holes and he took delight in inviting his colleagues to each establishment his expeditions had uncovered.

One lunchtime I accompanied Rex to a very down market establishment. There was damp on the walls, dark brown nicotine stains, carpets which squelched underfoot and a sullen clientele.

The barmaid, of indeterminate age, had no truck with anything which today would be called customer service.

It was into this unpromising environment that Rex launched me. When addressing people he spoke loudly and made extravagant gestures. His opening remark went along the lines: 'Ah serving wench, a pint of bitter for myself and a bottle of Guinness for my esteemed colleague' whilst making an expansive gesture in my direction.

That livened up the clientele. I was a little worried when the barmaid placed Rex's pint in front of him with such a thump that some of the content spilt onto the bar. Rex was not done. In a stentorian voice he said: 'Serving wench, I wish to partake on one of your delicious meat and potato pies'.

The barmaid disappeared behind a heated glass case, the glass was virtually opaque with nicotine stains. 'May I have some brown sauce?' Rex enquired. A bottle of HP sauce was produced, at which juncture Rex tears out of the pub, only to return a few moments later carrying a bottle of Daddies sauce.

'If you require brown sauce it has to be Daddies' he intoned. The clientele by now was highly animated. I have never been more pleased to leave a pub in my life.

My efforts to avoid Rex next day failed and with much trepidation I accompanied him to the watering hole visited the previous day. When we arrived the clientele eyed us up. It was as though a variety act had arrived. Rex was straight in to his performance: 'Ah, serving wench etc'.

But then, a change from the previous day's script. 'I suppose you want a meat and potato pie? said the barmaid. Rex responded 'She remembers! What a delectable serving wench!'.

'And I suppose you want Daddies sauce?' she said.

'Joy unconfined. Indeed I do, it has to be Daddies!'

Throughout this exchange I noted the clientele looking on intently and I made a mental note of how near the door I was and who might bar my passage.

Then, it all happened very quickly. The barmaid stooped behind the bar and arose holding what looked like an open sweet jar filled with a brown substance. In the twinkling of an eye she emptied the contents over the pie and the mess sloshed across the bar hitting Rex in the midriff and pouring down his trousers. A huge cheer rose from the assembled clientele. I grabbed Rex and pulled him out of the pub. He didn't go back!