On 02/07/2021 20:21, Martin wrote:
Hello mate, hope you are well.
I was feeling nostalgic for my youth growing up in Kingston upon Thames and did a search for the Three Fishes pub, a place that holds many dear memories for me. This search turned up chapter 20 of your Eel Pie Dhama series. I read chapter 20, went on to chapter 21 and then started back at chapter one and read through the whole lot without stopping. What can I say? I loved your writing and enjoyed every minute of the read. I just finished chapter 28 and was saddened to realise there wasn't a chapter 29 and onward. I wish it was a whole book man.
Anyway, as you gave me such pleasure with the read I thought the least I could do was to let you know how much I enjoyed it. I hope this message reaches you mate and that life has been good to you since those days.
/ Cheers!/
/Martin/
EEL PIE DHARMA - a memoir / haibun - © 1990 Chris Faiers
Chapter 20 - The Three Fishes
Pub life in London reflected the British tendency to divide into classes
and areas of interest. There were upper class pubs, right wing pubs,
Irish Republican pubs, working class pubs, and one unique pub where all
the regulars were very short, young males who only listened to Eddie
Cochran on the juke box. There were skinhead pubs and of course hippie
pubs.
The Three Fishes was a hippie pub, located on the corner next to the
Kingston-Upon-Thames rail station. The lights were dim, the music
blaring rock'n'roll, and the clientele longhairs of both sexes. At that
time in Britain, kids as young as fifteen could get away with going
into pubs, although the legal drinking age was eighteen, so there was
the expected quota of schoolgirls and boys.
It was just the sort of atmosphere I loved after a hard day of digging
graves. On one of my first visits, a gorgeous young girl of about
sixteen came and knelt before me, as if before a medieval knight. She
clasped her long hippie shawl about herself, and even I found I couldn't
take advantage of her, and offer the expected walk home through the
park:
Young girl
in an old shawl
kneeling
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One summer evening I made the long ride into Kingston on my bike after
work, and had a pint or two at the Three Fishes. It stays light very
late in Britain in summer, and so dusk was just turning to dark when I
left after 9 p.m., and began undoing my bicycle lock.
In the half light I noticed something very strange. There were several
police vans parked outside, and more arriving every second. In the dark
I made out the shapes of several dozen policemen, and I realized that a
raid was about to take place.
I wasn't drunk, only stupid, and some sense of hippie brotherhood won
out over common sense. I walked back into the Three Fishes and began
yelling "It's a raid! - It's a raid!"
The office in charge followed me through the doors, and I was the first
one grabbed. "You're nicked," he snarled, and passed me to another
bobby. Bustled back out the door, I caught a glimpse of the pandemonium
as drugs were dumped under most of the tables. I was pushed onto a
bus, much like a large tour bus, which the bobbies had requisitioned for
the occasion, and soon I was joined by thirty or forty other
longhairs. Then the bus and several van loads of miscreants were taken
down to Kingston police headquarters and booked.
I didn't get to sleep that night, as it took the police all night to
process so many of us. In the early morning light I found my way back
to my locked bicycle, and slowly wound my way back towards Twickenham.
Our case didn't come up for a month, and the courtroom was a mob scene.
When my turn came, I pleaded "Guilty, Your Honour" to the charge of
interfering with the raid by warning everyone, but I added, "I don't
feel guilty, though." The courtroom burst out laughing, both at the
oddity of my charge, and at my unusual plea. I was given a fine of
thirty pounds, which was then my wages for about three weeks.
Hash aroma
and stale beer
under the table
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