Brick Lane. East-End Pub-Share.

S C Hamill

Earth Angel Media.

2024.

schamill.com

Ai Free Publication is a UK Registered Trademark.

Trademark No: UK0000391810.

No Ai was used in the design and publication of this book.

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DEDICATION

To everybody who knows me.

Knows real-life and has dealt with its extremes or sticky situations in an attempt to make things better for both themselves,

and the ones they love.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to the people I know and work with

for giving me a never-ending supply of

personality to create the characters.

Thanks to

dankitchener@bigcartel.com

Plus, all the other street artists whose wonderful artwork

adorns the front cover of the book.

Thanks to Phil Maxwell at

philmaxwell.org

And

Paul Talling at

www.derelictlondon.com

for all their help

Special thanks for the book foreword to

www.visitbricklane.org

Thanks to The Truman Brewery,

Hackney, East London. www.trumanbrewery.com/

Very special thanks to

Keira Knightley

and her management

@unitedagents.co.uk

© Copyright House

2024

schamill.com

All rights reserved.

For my wife, Maria.

For my children, Thomas & Louise.

My Parents, Margaret & Clifford.

My Grandchildren,

Ella, Lana, Chloe, Kian, Lewis & Halle.

To my sister, Amy

and my dear brother, John.

"If you live life long enough, you’ll make mistakes. But if you learn from them, you’ll be a better person.

It’s how you handle adversity, not how it affects you.

The main thing is never quit, never quit,

never quit.

William J Clinton

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Chapter one: Flat fury & Ethan Hawke

Chapter two: Redecoration & fall

Chapter three: Sherlock Holmes & budgets

Chapter four: Getting to know you

Chapter five: Coffee time

Chapter six: Candidates

Chapter seven: The Sirius

Chapter eight: Builders, Karate & canines

Chapter nine: Allowance for Doris

Chapter ten: Repairs & Jogging

Chapter eleven: No-brainer beer

Chapter twelve: Sweat & shrinkage

Chapter thirteen: Congested Walrus & drunken Cinderella

Chapter fourteen: Last man standing

Chapter fifteen: Cans, curry & revelations

Chapter sixteen: The cellar

Chapter seventeen: A Sirius Casanova

Chapter eighteen: Moving-in

Chapter nineteen: Coffee & contempt

Chapter twenty: Legalities & lies

Chapter twenty-one: Hangovers & plans

Chapter twenty-two: Posh vampires

Chapter twenty-three: Just desserts

Chapter twenty-four: Stakeout & shocks

Chapter twenty-five: Hospital truths

Chapter twenty-six: Appointments & bequeaths

Chapter twenty-seven:  Gossip & plans

Chapter twenty-eight: Money

Chapter twenty-nine: Unreachable rainbows

Chapter thirty: Brewery

Chapter thirty-one: Test

Chapter thirty-two: Open doors

Chapter thirty-three: Positivity

Chapter thirty-four: Nice to meet you again...

Chapter thirty-five: Long time no see

Chapter thirty-six: Open for business

Foreword: BRICK LANE

By: www.visitbricklane.org

A microcosm of London’s shifting ethnic patterns, the area around Brick Lane in East London was once associated with poor slums and the scene of the crime for Jack the Ripper murders. Whilst the notorious pub Ten Bells still stands, the area itself is now extremely popular with London’s edgy and artistic crowd, featuring galleries, restaurants, markets and festivals throughout the year.

The Old Truman Brewery at 91 Brick Lane houses a vibrant market where up-and-coming designer set up shop every Sunday selling a unique variety of clothes, handbags and jewellery. There are also vintage clothing stores and chic boutiques dotted around the area.

As a hub of London's Bangladeshi community, Brick Lane has always been famed for its many authentic curry restaurants. It now also has a reputation for its warehouse art exhibitions and trendy clubs and bars. So, before your East London experience is complete, be sure to head to the Vibe Bars beer garden or 93 Feet East (150 Brick Lane) which has become an East End institution well known for its eclectic mix of live music and intimate atmosphere.

One: Flat fury & Ethan Hawke

IF THE TRUTH IS TOLD, I don't think you're working out here anymore, Dan announced pulling his designer glasses off his nose and chewing on the tip.

I know I don't. I do five sit-ups every day. That doesn't sound like much, but there are only so many times I can hit the snooze button before I have to concede. But it keeps my dreams alive, Ritchie joked to Dan's unmoved expression. Oh, what's on your mind now? Come on, come sit on daddy's knee and tell him everything, he asked patting his leg. Is it you and me baby-doll? Come here and let me give you a huddle and a cuddle, he teased blowing him a kiss.

No... it's you living here you, fat imbecile, and don't you dare take the piss out of me, Dan cursed with his middle-class London lisp. Pacing behind the couch and running his fingers through his short black hair and flicking his nose in the air.

Oh, is that right dip-shit...? Not good enough for you am I, you, posh twerp...? You come out with these amazing ideas faster than a woman can buy shoes. I think you need to start playing to your strengths and keep your mouth shut. When did you think you even became my landlord, anyway? You gay Einstein, Ritchie replied turning his head to his accuser and giving him a frown that could putrefy him. He changed the serious expression to a beaming smile at will. To further annoy and confuse his flatmate.

Yes, I'm right and you're wrong and turn the fat fog-horn down too, he said pointing at his mouth. Have some respect and consideration for your fellow man. Scarlett's been working all night, he snapped. That's another thing you know nothing about either, work! As I've pointed out, you don't fit in around here now, he repeated, seething and leaning on the couch behind Ritchie.

You're F.A.S and should leave A.S.A.P, he added looking down his nose at Ritchie as he tensed his arms on the white leather sofa. He flexed his skinny legs to his tip-toes, thinking hard about what to say next. Like an exercising ballerina behind his target's head.

You know, if I close my eyes, your lisp makes you sound like an angry Chris Eubank, Ritchie surmised with another smile. Enough of the D.R.A.M.A. acronym bullshit too. You're like a baby's nappy, he said to Dan's fuming face. Full of shit and always on my ass. Put the bloody tongue away too. You're either concentrating or trying to give me the come-on. But it's very off-putting when eating sweetie. You look like Fleegle from the banana splits.

Who...? Dan searched his head. What do you mean by D.R.A.M.A? Dan asked realising he was losing carte blanche in word shortening.

Dumb Retard Asking for More Attention, Ritchie shouted.

"Oh, shut it, you, a nasty piece of work. There's a 'for' in that, you L.I.F.E.R!" He yelled in a whisper, cupping his fist in his hand like the boy wonder.

A what...? Ritchie asked in confusion at another of Dan's meaningless word puzzles.

Lazy... Ignorant... Fatty... Expecting... Retirement! He clarified with a hiss, punching his fist into his hand with every word. Get out and find yourself some work, or a full-time job instead of chauffeuring and DJing once every blue moon. Your constant lazing around watching the telly all the time is embarrassing. Doesn't it bother you, you Jeremy Kyle-obsessed freak, he barked. Running his finger across his lip and glancing at the screen. Fast returning his stare to the back of his respondent's head. You belong on that stupid program, he pointed. A prime candidate dosser.

That's not an acronym, Ritchie teased.

Eating everyone else's food without asking and behaving like butter wouldn't melt. Monica's fuming after your performance last week. Matt and Diane are threatening to speak to the landlord and move out too. Oh, and... I am not gay either, you, fat lump, he vexed feeling hot on the neck and tapping on his own skeletal, in-growing chest.

Oh, come on, you must be a bit bent. You sound fruitier than a bag of rubber dicks.

Well I can assure you, I'm not, Dan countered faster than sound.

Oh please, less of the Jackanory Dan. Listen, darling, wherever you find your treasure, so will you find your heart, Ritchie replied in a mocking colourful voice pausing for breath;

You should watch your step boy. Gun cartridges are cheap at the moment, he explained. Listen to me dickhead, he grimaced, raising his fingers to count on, getting serious and deciding he'd had enough;

I pay my rent on time, without fail. The chauffeuring pays good coin, considering I'm still signing on. I keep this place tidy, unlike some, I could mention. As for my performance last week. Everybody gets ill after a mountain of booze. I didn't make the toilet fast enough that's all. So, shut your little girl's mouth, he paused again. Because if you don't stop lecturing me like my Mother. See that window.... I'll throw you straight through it, you closet Rylan. No matter how much you try to lecture me, you'll never make it impersonating my Mother either. You don't have the tits for a start. Oh and, he searched his conscience. As for Matt and Diane, I'd jump over the bloody moon to watch them get their lame asses out of here. I'd have a bloody street party if they did. They make me laugh. Property developers without a bloody property, he frowned raising his arms in the air and rubbing at his spiked, greying hair. Don't have the first clue. Pah, he reasoned. I wouldn't mind so much if he didn't waltz around thinking he's Lawrence Llewellyn bloody Bowen all the time, he inferred shaking his head to himself. Diane thinks she's the queen of green and the queen of bastard Sheba too, he grumbled. I keep this derelict place clean. Both inside and out. I keep the crap inside it working as best I can, for nothing too, he sniffed. The heating, the water and... I even patched up the roof. I'm not a freebie bloody caretaker that came with the building and the pub. I get no thanks or appreciation for anything I do around here from anyone. Particularly, gay little tadgers like you. The bricks and mortar's knackered and everything else in this buggered, minus seven-star Hilton, he ranted. It manages all that with none of my help at all. It's those two designer idiots and the absent bloody landlord you need to vent your anger on, not me, he grumbled. Feeling sad about the place that was once a thriving hub in the local community. He hasn't done shit to the upstairs gaff for years, he added turning back to the telly. As for modish Matt and dolly brain Diane. They couldn't develop a decent fart between them. They're the ones supposed to be doing up these four walls up, he bemoaned. Looking around the room and swirling his spoon in his cereal bowl. Turning to frown at his challenger and realised Dan had hit quite a raw nerve inside him. If the Seven Stars was mine, I'd turn the place around. Upside down and inside out. Make it something to be proud of. Down the stairs too, he added with an aggrieved glance. Wishing he had the power to wave a magic wand and re-open the once flourishing pub. Are you sure you're not a tincy-wincy bit into men Dan?

Oh, shut it slob features. I wish you'd leave us all alone... for good, he replied, clasping his hips in anger. For your information, I've had loads of girlfriends.

Huh? You're telling me to shut it now...? Charming. You bloody started this pointless argument fem-boy, he growled shrugging his shoulders and grabbing his spoon to turn his thoughts back to his breakfast. Has anyone ever told you, you take life too seriously?

No... has anyone ever told you, you take life with as much zeal as a fat slug?

Yes, often... but with gaps in between their words. Hold on a second, you're not getting a gay complex are you, he quizzed with a grin, throwing a spoonful of bran in his mouth. I'm stating the obvious, he crunched.

O.M.G., the cheek of you, Dan shouted. You're getting on my nerves now. I'm not even going to talk about my sexuality with you. I'm G.A.Y... Gorgeous And Young. G.A.Y, Great and Yummy not gay, gay.

Good, now shut your cake-hole and keep your bloody voice down, or you'll wake up the dead.

No... I will not keep my voice... and, turn that damn TV off and listen when I'm talking to you?

Now that would be a bore, Ritchie said with another bran crunch.

You, are a big lump of lard! Dan harangued, leaning over the couch to grab the remote from his chubby flatmate's side. He hit the off-button and threw it across the room straight at the television. They both glanced at each other open-mouthed, in some kind of slow-motion, time-frame. Watching it spin through the air like a helicopter blade in zero gravity. It clunked off the top of the television as their mouths opened in silence. It dropped to the carpet behind the TV glass stand. Coming to a stop under the full-length musty and dank, red velvet curtains.

Bloody hell, you freakin’ ass-chaser? I was watching that. Turn the TV off...? Pah... I like that. I wish I could. You're the TV, he inferred. Bloody pot calling kettle that is. I could say the same thing to you, you glory-hole-seeking Trans-Vestite. Tons of girlfriends? In your bloody dreams. I haven't seen any of these so-called women, he hushed hearing footsteps on the landing;

Oh God, she yawned like a restless tiger. Thanks for the rude awakening. Haven't seen what? What the hell's going on in here you, noisy sods, she questioned. Arguing again, what's the time, anyway? She asked walking into the fray, sounding croaky and sleep deprived. Woken by their raised voices and looking somewhat forlorn. She rubbed at her brown eyes and short blonde hair then furrowed an eyebrow at the pair of them. Not dissimilar to a Chinese Elvis who'd just woken up. She plonked herself beside Ritchie and folded her pink 'Hot-chick, no size too small' emblazoned robe in between her slim legs. Looking tired but sounding chipper for someone not long after a twelve-hour shift. Packing frozen fish into an endless conveyor belt of boxes and crates all night. She rubbed on her hair like a bemused Koala, waiting for some kind of explanation from her lip-silent flat-mates. As Ritchie continued to forage as if he'd never seen food, on his milk-smothered bowl of bran that belonged to her. He glanced at Dan, to give a confession to her inquiry on their behalf. Continuing to imbibe himself with his cereal. Sounding akin to a starving road gulley sweeper that had gone without sewage for weeks.

Oh, it's this animal again. He says I haven't had girlfriends, Dan purported.

Oh, ignore him and he'll go away, Ritchie advised. It's gone half-nine Scarlett, Jeremy Kyle time, he approved with a burp, ignoring Dan's whistle-blowing outburst. Girlfriends my right eye, he continued. I haven't seen hide-nor-hair of his past exploits or this infamous voluptuous women posse, have you?

I think there was one, she replied flicking the sleep from her eyes.

"Well whatever he's trying to prove, he's having another hissy-pussy-fit... slurp... and as a result. The remote's gone walkabout creek over there behind the telly, he explained nodding in its direction. He also said you've been out working on the streets for money all night too. I'd wager all his so-called 'exes had dicks," he teased to her hand-hidden grin.

Oh, come on Dan, it's half past nine. You know the drill. Jeremy Kyle's on you, big killjoy. Come on, play the game, she explained forming an instant allegiance with Ritchie.

You two-faced fat... ooh, I said nothing of the sort Scarlett, I swear on his life, Dan offered with angst.

Oops, that's me dead then, Ritchie said feigning a heart attack and slumping on the back of the sofa.

I've had plenty of girlfriends and she will vouch for that, Dan bellowed nodding his head at Scarlett and looking back at gulley-sucking, Ritchie who wasn't listening.

Call me gay again and I'll show you who's a pussy, fatty Arbuckle. There's no talking to you these days, he said, folding his arms and biting into his bottom lip. Striking a foot-tapping pose of impatience.

He's the only gay in the village, and he acts like a Laydee, Ritchie laughed.

You think Dan's gay... never, she said looking animated and shocked with pretense, as she ran her fingers through her hair. She curled her legs onto the couch to get ready for the morning viewing then remembered the remote had been cast asunder. Tut, I wish I was out working the streets instead of shackled up at that crappy fish-stinking warehouse. I might have got some of my downstairs action. It's been that long, I can't remember the last time. It's about time I found my six-gun, sex-legs again. I'm surprised my bearded clam hasn't sealed up, or healed up, she claimed without a hint of restraint.

Ok, I concede, Ritchie said deciding to relight the argument. So, there might have been one girlfriend? But that might have been at your exploration and experimentation stage, fudge-faggot, he muttered slurping sugared milk from his bowl like a human hoover. So, what was her name you, woman loving Eros?

Hey, you're a terrible man Ritchie, she inferred looking at the contents of his bowl as Dan stood tall thinking she was about to back him up. Scoffing all my yummies again.

She stood from the couch and tilted his breakfast bowl away from his open mouth. At the optimum moment, he was about to siphon up the remains of his fodder. She picked out a solitary bran flake and opened her mouth in a sexual and teasing way. Placed it onto her tongue to Dan and Ritchie's gulped silence and swallowed it.

Yum, she smiled turning on her heel toward the television. She dropped to her knees and eyed the whereabouts of the missing push-button device. Spotting it begging for her attention under the curtain. She lay down on the carpet flat-bellied and sniper-style. Without a care in the world for exposing herself. Wriggled forward and reached her arm above the DVD player and through the TV stand, to retrieve the house's most treasured prize. Her two flat-mates watched as her body wriggled semi-naked on the floor with added oral groans to grab it. Ritchie remained silent, in mouth-busy awe, as Dan gave her his finest disgusted face.

Aren't you supposed to be getting some shut-eye? Dan questioned, breaking the silence with his hand perched ah-la feminine on his hip.

I was, but not now. That was my last night shift for three days. So, it's a big whoopee for me, she explained moving backwards, away from the TV, riding up her robe further. I might even get pissed later. But Jeremiah Kyle is required first though, eh Ritch, she explained turning around to face them with the remote in her grasp. Sitting legs akimbo and spread-eagled on her butt. With her pink gown not even covering any of her lady bits. That girl's name was Samantha, wasn't it Dan, she asked retrieving a name from her dusty memory.

You're off to the pub? Mmm, what a brilliant idea. I might even join you, Ritchie asserted wiping drooled milk from his lip.

Tut, Dan cursed. The pair of you going out getting drunk again. Were you two separated at birth? What a sad and sorry waste of human life you both are, he spouted. I should drug the pair of you, harvest your internal organs, and transplant them into someone more deserving, he chided throwing his head into the air and storming from the lounge, back toward his room.

Oh, shut it you big prude, she shouted at his exit. He's High Tension today, she decided standing up and pressing the remote standby button. Throwing it toward Ritchie as Jeremy Kyle sprang to life on the TV behind her. He smiled a wink and turned his licked-dry breakfast bowl upside down. Resting it across his legs, then tapping at it with his fat thumbs to her puzzled expression;

"High Tension... Bap... bap... ba... dap... bap... bap... da... dap... That's what we are.... superstars. I think God has Dan's menstrual cycle wrong again. He's got his P.M.S or Psychotic Mood Shift angry head on for three weeks and he's normal for one, he claimed with a grin, bouncing from side to side at his beat Oh sorry, seventies pioneers of British dance music, HIGH TENSION? He said waiting for a positive reply. Hoping for the smallest inkling she had the first clue what he was chiming about. HIGHLY STRUNG by Spandau Ballet... one of the gods of 80s new romantic...? he waited with anticipation. Oh, I give up... never bloody mind. You're far too young to remember any of them, he decided looking at her youthful and confused expression. Realising she wouldn't have heard of the funk band or new romantic gods springing from his encyclopedic knowledge of all things music. I wish he'd take a bloody chill pill sometimes," he maintained, turning his empty bowl the right way up and standing from the sofa. He rubbed his hand across his bulbous tummy that was trying to escape from under his white T-shirt. Then, stood quiet and still; 'The neck bone's connected to the ass bone.' He twisted his neck until it clicked with terrifying volume. Then blew off an enormous