I Wouldn't Bet on it

A couple of months ago, following a two-year onslaught of misfortune, I found myself with no option but to move back into my childhood home and spend some time with the folks. On the Friday night of my second week there, longing for a place to drown all the sorrows I’d accumulated, I made the twenty-minute walk to The Royal Oak, a traditional pub built over two centuries ago that sits at the halfway point of a steep hill in a nearby village. A regular spot for me in my early twenties, I figured if the sorrows resisted my attempts to drown them, they could at least be distracted a while with nostalgia.

Happy the layout of the place included spots where it was possible to keep to yourself, I chose one and got to drinking. The nostalgia, enhanced at first by what seemed a barely altered interior, was useful for a while. Without really intending to, I soon discovered consolation indulging in fantasies of what could have been if my younger self knew what I now did.

Toward the end of my fourth beer, I made my third visit to the gents. All the usable urinals were in use. The stall was vacant though, and my seal was well and truly broken, so I used that rather than wait. Halfway through relieving myself, an impatient knocking started on the door. It didn’t stop, despite me saying I’d soon be out. When I’d finished, I heaved a sigh, zipped myself back up and pushed the flusher on the cistern. As the water whirled around in the bowl, strange worm-like shapes of electric blue light darted through it. These lights quickly multiplied and filled the room. Before I even had chance to try and figure out what was going on, they dissipated, and everything turned pitch-black. Stood perfectly still, I nonetheless had the sense of moving through something and of something moving through me. It felt like no more than ten seconds had passed before the sensation stopped. The blackness was sucked away through the toilet bowl.

I straightaway realised the knocking had ceased. When my eyes had readjusted, I saw that the toilet looked different; the flusher wasn’t on the cistern; a chain with a black plastic handle at the end now hung from the ceiling to shoulder height. I was sure the paint on the walls looked fresher as well.

I opened the door to find nobody in the room. I hadn’t taken much notice before, but the paint seemed less worn in there also and the tiles on the floor weren’t as grubby. I did notice that none of the taps, soap dispensers or hand-dryers were sensory activated anymore.

I was only on the Carling, so I knew the confusion wasn’t drink related. I looked myself in the mirror, then ran the cold tap, splashed my face a few times and closed my eyes. When I reopened them, the scene was the same. Consumed by a thought that seemed too ridiculous to engage with, I made my way back through to the bar.

The décor looked pretty much the same. The continual replenishing of the cloud of cigarette smoke that whirled about the ceiling though, and the ages of the smokers I recognised who were contributing to it, confirmed the ridiculous, as did a chalkboard behind the bar advertising an upcoming Millennium Eve Party. I was forced to accept that I’d passed through the fabric of time, which it turns out is velvety.

Luckily, given I’d just emerged from the toilets without previously entering the bar and didn’t want to draw attention to myself, the emotions I should have experienced were subdued by the four pints of Carling, a well-nourished melancholy, and the fact the place has always seemed frozen in time anyway. I ordered a pint and sat at a table, somewhat out of the way but with a decent view of most of the bar.

I wasn’t long into my scanning of the room, seeing who I recognised and pondering on the futures I knew awaited some of them, when I spotted a nervous-looking, pale young lad with a mop top that didn’t at all suit him. Wearing a duffle jacket, denim jeans and a pair of Adidas Campus, he was sipping frequently at his lager as he hovered uncomfortably on the periphery of a conversation. I realised I was sharing a room with my twenty-year-old self.

Aside from watching lots of football, listening to depressing music, and avoiding meaningful interactions with women, I knew he had no real interests at the time. It showed in a face and a posture that lacked substance. I was sure he didn’t make enough of an impression on the room to worry about anyone seeing me and making the connection.

Part of me felt sympathy for the sorrows that lay ahead of him. The other part felt annoyed that he was going to be the cause of most of them.

Nothing about the scene sparked a memory suggesting I’d returned to a pivotal moment in my life. Thinking the absence of pivotal moments back then may have been the issue, I convinced myself I had been sent back to give him a bit of a talking to. Not much concerned with rules from movies about face-to-face interactions with yourself, I was instead initially restrained by a pang of pain I experienced, as I realised that, once he knew who I was, seeing me in my current state would make his disappointment greater than mine.

On the table next to me was a newspaper, dated 8^th of November 1999. The newspaper was open on the puzzle pages with a biro lying across a near-completed crossword. On my table there was a small stack of beermats. Thinking he would be more intrigued, and subsequently motivated, by life advice mysteriously turning up in his pocket, I took up the biro and wrote the following on the back of a beermat:

Unless you have money, you can only be a casual spectator in life for so long before reality forces you to participate, at which point you’re going to be ill-equipped and something of a spectacle yourself. Start seeking and embracing opportunity.

I thought maybe it was a bit abrupt. Plus, I supposed it would be hypocritical to rebuke him for watching the world go by and squandering opportunities, when I had just travelled through time and − having only twenty quid in my pocket and feeling not far off being ready for bed − was already thinking of making my way back, excusing myself with a vague intent to visit again once I was equipped with a clear head and an equally clear plan.

Knowing I should at least have some form of contact with him before leaving though, I sat there a while, drinking my beer and wondering if I should write something better on another beermat or swallow my pride and approach him. When I’d come close to mustering up the resolve to talk to him, I noticed a young woman looking over at me. With a quick glance I recognised her as a former crush that I’d rarely ever spoken more than a sentence to, despite her always friendly disposition. After following the direction of my focus, she stopped in her tracks just outside the ladies. When I caught her eye, she looked at me with a curious smile then looked back and forth between me and my younger self. An expression took form that suggested she would soon pursue whatever ideas her curiosity was filling her head with. She opened the door to the ladies and hurried on in. Adrenaline immediately surged through me. I panicked. Knowing I would have to leave the chat with my former self for this visit, I still felt I needed to do something that might help him out. Grateful of a sudden for inheriting a wealth of knowledge from him regarding football in that era, I took up another beermat. With little effort, I managed to remember the winners of the Champions League, the Premier League, the FA Cup and the League Cup for that season, as well as the Euro’s. I quickly wrote the info on the back of the beermat with a note telling him to place a hundred quid multi on them. Then I made my way back to the gents, managing to slip the beermat in his jacket pocket without any hassle.  

Pulling the handle on the flush chain did the trick for the return journey. The knocking on the door hadn’t turned into banging. The man on the other side of it was relieved and not at all angry. I thought about warning him of the portal, but I didn’t feel up to trying to explain what had just happened.

I looked in the mirror. I was sure my hairline had receded a touch. The wrinkles around my eyes seemed to have deepened slightly. My intuition told me I hadn’t caused any significant ripples in the course of history. It also told me, via the spiritual weight of an extra regret, that the bet hadn’t been placed. I made my way back through to the bar for one last pint to calm myself before home time.

When the guy who knocked on the toilet door reappeared, nothing in his demeanour, which was more expressive than mine, suggested having travelled through time. I did think of discussing the potential hazard with the landlord, who was working the bar. I didn’t want to get barred for being crazy though. I decided to keep it to myself unless I hear anyone else mention a similar experience.

On my walk home, the memory unfolded of finding the beermat − which went over a week undiscovered − in my coat pocket.

I was in the city-centre. I’d just withdrew a hundred pounds for shopping. Reaching deep into the pocket as I put my wallet back, I noticed a bent piece of card down there. I pulled it out, smoothed the crease and read what was written on the back. The mystery of it alone was almost enough to convince me. The coincidence of the amount I’d just withdrew seemed an added assurance I was being guided by fate. When I looked up, a bookies was within view; impulse carried me to its doors. The murkiness of the interior filled me with doubt though. Thinking more on the inclusion of Leicester City in the list added to that doubt. I wondered if maybe one of my friends had slipped it in my pocket as a joke.

A hundred pounds was a lot of money for me back then. I stood there going back and forth in my mind as to whether I should place the bet, with the occasional interjection of maybe just putting a tenner on it, until a gruff voice interrupted my thoughts.

‘Can I help you there?’ I heard. I looked to the counter to see an absolute brute of a bloke, who clearly didn’t have time for indecisive wisps loitering in his shop, staring intently at me.   

‘No,’ I answered, lowering my eyes and adding an unnecessary apology. I tore up the beermat, threw it in the bin, and left. I spent my money that day on vinyls and a pair of jeans.

I remember being filled with foreboding a few months later when Leicester City won the League Cup, the first leg on the multi. By the time the Euro’s came around, I experienced something like horror at the thought, which came to fruition, of France winning.

Eventually, with the passing of years and coming of new regrets, I managed to put it behind me. I got a cruel reminder in 2016 though when Leicester City won the Premier League. I remember feeling betrayed in some way for not finding a beermat in my pocket at the start of that season.

Having now put together a constructive plan of action, I’ve tried flushing myself back in time on two more occasions; once with a sober mind; and, as that didn’t work, thinking maybe it was part of the process, once more after indulging in fantasies made hazy with alcohol. No luck so far. My folks, who I love dearly and don’t want to take advantage of, are getting a bit annoyed with me though, so I should probably be putting more focus on plans for the present.