Uncle Thumper was the sort of man that your mother warned you to cross the road for. His menace was constantly displayed like peacock feathers in full flush. It was uncompromising, as black as the tattoos on his arms. The way he walked with his shoulders weighed down with the price of reputation. Sunlight picked up the pink spots on his shaven head and one look in his eyes was more than most people would dare. Uncle Thumper was the sort of man you boasted of knowing but would never wish to truly befriend.

When you saw him in the pub, there was usually a group of acolytes waiting on his every word. Spotty youths wearing baseball caps or their later incarnations in paint splattered jeans and rigger boots. It was a close circle that had clearly marked their territory. With his back against the bar was the ruler of this certain kingdom, Uncle Thumper. He had the loudest voice when it was needed, the best laugh when it was required and choice of conversation that was his right by conquest. If he did not understand a joke, he would smother the enjoyment of the teller by breaking the punchline with his own scornful humor. With Uncle Thumper, you knew who was in charge.

He had no need to have his life mapped out; the journey had been short and would not continue further from the boundary of his understanding. He accepted his place in the world was to be the ruler of all he surveyed. Beyond that was only void and even if there were a thousand stars of heaven in the darkness, their light would not reach his eyes. He did not realize how much vanity had robbed him from living. He was condemned to wade in the shallows and not swim with dolphins.

Uncle Thumper’s real name was Sam but no one dared call him by that name. Once the nickname had been uttered all those years ago (no one could recall the reason why), Sam was forever Uncle Thumper. He had become a hero to his people, a concrete hewn Superman or Robin Hood. No power could best him. Not until one particular day.

**

“’kin hell, look at that dozy tosser,” Uncle Thumper said to anyone who could hear him. He was standing outside the George pub on a late summer night with the tables covered by a cityscape of glasses. Young lads holding onto camera phones perched were they could, to talk to denim skirted girls. Men wearing the latest team shirts looked on with admiring glances, heads tilted back when they smoked. It was just how things should be.

The object of Uncle Thumper’s amusement was a young man trying to park a car across the road. The man was having some difficulty in squaring the car up between the gaps and was very aware of the audience. Suffering the embarrassment, he parked with the car balanced half on the pavement. Once out of the car, he did not look toward the crowded pub, dashing into the shop opposite the car. The laughter from the crowd faded with the door bell of the shop.

“What a tit,” said Uncle Thumper. Everyone agreed.

“So what’s this carrying on then?” asked Johnny Boy. Uncle Thumper had begun to explain something that was very important before taking time out to ridicule the parker.

“They want me to go to some training, in arsing Watford” said Uncle Thumper, “Look, I do me job and that’s that.”

“Yeah but you get expenses don’t cha, Thump,” piped in a young man called Lee, who suddenly realized that he was perhaps sitting a bit too close.

“Lee’s ’kin right there, Thump,” agreed Johnny Boy, “Take what you can. All that free beer, just get it down.”

“I’ll be pissed alright,” said Uncle Thumper. Surprisingly enough he was actually looking forward to going on some training. “Free booze all night. Like a VIP, not like you plebs”

“Bloody hell lads, get Thump! Lad de dah, “said Johnny Boy, “Getting all posh he is now. Free drinks and all.”

“Am I fuck getting posh. Now get some beers in you knob.” It was a command not a request.

**

Uncle Thumper was being forced to be Sam. And it hurt. The training quite boring but had to pay attention. All those new rules and regulations for the workplace, and then there was the tests on how to match up the correct products. His brain was being snowed under and it showed when at break times he was first out of the room, cigarette in hand. He could feel himself shaking. It was as if his body was being jerked up and down like a puppet.

A cup of coffee and a fag. That was enough to send the puppeteer to sleep. He could relax now.

“Hard work isn’t it?” a voice said.

Uncle Thumper looked around and saw a smiling red haired woman. She raised an unlit cigarette. Uncle Thumper took a deep breath and then fumbled for his lighter. He produced it on the second attempt. Strange, he thought, don’t normally offer my lighter. He then realized that he had only bought it that morning at a petrol station. He kept a lighter at home but never took it with him.

“Oh thanks love, you are a lifesaver,” the woman said, “I’m Lizzie.” She handed back the lighter to Uncle Thumper. One of her fingers stroked the edge of his palm as the lighter was returned. Her eyes were almost black as she withdrew the cigarette from her mouth and blew out the first blue shreds of smoke. Spotting his name badge, Lizzie asked, “What’s the S stand for? Can I guess?”

“Um, er, it’s Sam.”

“Pity, I thought it might be Stud,” Lizzie smiled. “See you later. Thanks for the light.”

As she walked away, Uncle Thumper looked down at the tie he was wearing. It was gray paisley, narrow and turned in on itself, capped off by a thin knot. In that moment he wished for something better to wear. Lizzie was now talking to a couple of other women but she glanced back just long enough for him to daydream about her breasts. A little shiver jumped down his back.

At the end of the day’s training, the delegates were sitting in the bar. Uncle Thumper was sitting with a small group of men who were all admiring the women also on the course. Despite the bright lights and busy reception, the bar seemed to be enough of a home for all of them. Uncle Thumper was aware that he was not quite at the summit; a loud Scotsman called Duggie occupied the place although that would soon change.

“That Brenda has a good arse,” Duggie said. “You could get really stuck into that.”

“Not half,” said a thin man called Roy. He was leafing through a large white folder, “Better than getting stuck into this.” He flicked the pages as if he was preparing a card trick. “Have you seen the stuff in here.”

“They have to give you something to take back and show the boss,” said Duggie, “Anyway who is going to read that now.”

“We are supposed to,” replied Ian from the northern office. He was a nervous fellow who wore a jacket that was just too big for his shoulders. Both Duggie and Uncle Thumper snared him with their practiced disdain. Ian gulped and then put down his folder replacing it with a drink.

“Tha’s better,” said Duggie, “Now who fancies another one. I reckon it’s your shout Sammy.”

It took Uncle Thumper a couple of seconds to realize that he was being talked to. No one called him Sammy and no one asked him to buy drinks. Duggie was in desperate need of a slap. A bloody good slap too, one that would knock the fillings out of his big fat Scottish gob. A swirl of anger began to work into his hand.

“That sounds great; I would love a Vodka WKD.” It was Lizzie. She had come over to the group. The anger vanished. Uncle Thumper rose up and as meek as a choirboy went over to the bar to buy the next round of drinks. When he returned, Lizzie had pulled a chair into the circle of men and was very close to Uncle Thumper.

“Thanks Love,” she said as he plonked the blue bottle down in front of her. He thought he was walking on bubble wrap, all anger was gone.

“Ah that’s the stuff of life,” Duggie was saying as he took a sip from his fresh glass. “You know we should hit the town soon.”

“It’s alright here,” said Uncle Thumper. He was not sure if he truly believed it, but it was time to mount a challenge. Duggie would never have got a word in back home. He raised his glass very slowly.

“Nay man, we’ll hit the town.” It was a command, not a request.

He did not know how to respond, then a hand was on Uncle Thumper’s arm. “You had better keep hold of me Sam, just in case I get ratted.” Lizzie was not like the women in the George, that much was obvious. It was like daring to swim without water wings.

**

The taste of mozzarella was new to Uncle Thumper. By the look of the plate he thought they were poached eggs but he did not want to say anything. That would have given Duggie the go ahead to take the piss. There was no way that was going to happen. So the chewy white globules were eaten without comment. He did not like the taste.

“Take yer jacket off,” Duggie was saying to Ian. The young man looked sheepish and tried to say no but Duggie was far too insistent. “Are you wearing Joan Collin’s shoulder pads under there?”

Ian went redder than the bolognaise sauce on his plate. He duly removed his jacket. His shirt sleeves were puffed up because he was wearing armbands. Duggie sniggered. “What are they? Do you get dressed in your old man’s clothes?”

Uncle Thumper was burning inside. That should have been his choice when to ridicule someone. Duggie was stealing from him. He was so consumed by this turn of events he did not realize that Duggie had turned his spite toward him.

“Maybe he ought to use your tie, Sammy boy.” Duggie flicked the end of Uncle Thumper’s tie. “Go with his granddad outfit.”

“Shut up, Duggie,” said Lizzie. “You are a complete arse.”

“Now tell me something I don’t know,” snorted Duggie. “Hey man it’s only a joke.”

“Some people may not think it’s funny,” Said Lizzie. “I bet Sam here would not be like that. Would you Sam?”

I would be, too right, thought Uncle Thumper. I would be taking the piss out of all you. I don’t understand this.

“Not me,” said Sam. He removed his tie. “No one gives a shit what you think, Duggie. Lizzie is right you are an arse. Why don’t you just fuck off.”

Duggie tried to be the sort of man that drinks at the hardest pub in Glasgow. He wished could be that sort of man. Sam looked as if he wanted to be such a man it would be no problem to assume that role. Only he seemed very much happy to not even go there. Duggie was aware that he could have passed the audition for Tiny Tim right now. It was time to go.

“Too much of the falling down water, I’m knacked,” Duggie mumbled as he stood up. He threw down a twenty pound note onto the table, “that should be enough to cover my share.”

The rest of the group watched, Duggie shuffle through the maze of chairs and tables. He was trying to find the quickest route out of the restaurant. As he reached the entrance it seemed that he would look back. He paused then suddenly lurched into the street as if he was a leaf being blown by the wind.

“Thanks for that,” Ian said to Sam. He was putting his jacket back on. Sam only knew that Lizzie was caressing his thigh, a sudden quick squeeze. Stiffness pumped up a bulge. Thank goodness for the table cloth to hide the telltale sign.

“It’s ok,” said Sam. “I cannot take fellas like him, they are dicks.”

“You are too good,” smiled Lizzie and squeezed a little harder. She knew that more table cloth would be needed.
“More drinks?” asked Roy. He seemed a little bemused but was happy to let Sam take centre stage.
Sam was delighted as the table formed around him. He felt very safe to talk about the small things that matter. He even let slip his enjoyment of going to car boot sales to find old postcards (something the crowd at the George did not know). All the time, Lizzie was smiling. It helped make the taste of those meatballs even more appealing. His mind took flight and with each new mouthful he could picture the fullness of Lizzie’s breasts. Tonight was never going to end.

Walking back to the hotel was leisurely. Although Lizzie did not walk hand in hand with Sam, she would brush his side with a deft movement, before pausing to look in a shop window or listen to the music coming out of a bar. Each touch made Sam feel as tall as poppy. Roy and Ian waited for Sam to lead the way; they could see no reason not to. It was natural the way of things.

Back at the hotel, Sam said that he would escort Lizzie back to her room. She said that it was not necessary but thought that it was better to let him rather than cause a scene. Outside her door, Sam stood, unsure of what to do. He did not want to keep imagining what lay beneath her black sweater. As he moved forward Lizzie put a hand out to touch his chest then kissed him on the cheek.

“Good night, Sam. Let’s see tomorrow, ok?”

Then she was inside the room.

Sam was ready to knock on the door, his hand seconds away from foolishness. He dropped it and started to walk back to the lifts.

“She dump you then?” Duggie was standing there near the lift door. He looked even more troubled, a red face under a straw colored bird’s nest. “What a tease.”

“Shut it, Duggie.”

“Come on man, have a drink with me and forget what happened.”

“No, it’s fine.” Sam yawned, “I’ll get off.” Any other time he would have gone for the drink. It was not to be for this night.

“Prick.”

Uncle Thumper punched Duggie. Uncle Thumper had been waiting for the moment. He had trapped Duggie where he wanted him. Alone. Duggie crumpled like a sandcastle.
“Stay down!” yelled Uncle Thumper. He stood over Duggie the way Muhammad Ali had done when defeating Floyd Patterson. Duggie stirred. “Don’t even think about it.” Sneered Uncle Thumper, a triumphant gobbet of drool trickled down his chin. Duggie stared up in the face of a Viking beserker, raw fury filling the hallway.

Lizzie saw all of this from her door. Sam had gone, he was no where to be seen. There was only Uncle Thumper. Sam would never come back. Perhaps he had never truly been there. She closed the door. Uncle Thumper did not even know she had been watching. He just stared at Duggie, daring him to get back up so that he could be smashed back down until he realized his place in the world.

**

A few days later, Johhny Boy was sharing a pint with Uncle Thumper in the George. It was early afternoon and they were alone. Most of the lunchtime drinkers had returned to work or gone shopping. A couple of teenage boys were playing pool. The sharp click of the balls being hit echoing in the vacant spaces. Smoke was clearing from the lunchtime tables.

“So how did it go Thump?” Johnny asked.

“Not bad, not bad at all,” said Uncle Thumper.

“Get some?”

“Oh yeah, free beer and shagging. All the time.”

“Right.”

Uncle Thumper drank his beer, with the price of his reputation weighing heavily down on him. So much so, that he did not even notice the final wage packet or P45 that filled his back pocket.