Old Red Eyes is Back

I have wracked my brains to try to remember where this story came from.

It has been filed away in my subconscious for perhaps three decades, that much I have been able to determine by referring to key dates in my life ie, after college and before getting married.

As for the original teller of the story, well that is not entirely clear either but then if I knew one of the pieces of that particular mental jigsaw then all others would simply fall into place.

I was reminded of it by the last few days of thick, damp and stubborn fog that has shrouded much of the UK. The same conditions were the backdrop for the story that I will eventually get to recount.

Thirty years ago the fog was more likely to be caused by air pollution from domestic fossil fuels, full leaded petrol and that favourite activity of men, a casual bonfire. This current phenomena appears perfectly natural in its formation according to the experts although I have long since forgotten my school education in weather systems and cannot offer any meaningfull meteorological explanation beyond that.

I do seem to remember the story being told in a distinct North-East England accent which is one of the most lyrical, emotive and accidentally comic of all of the varied dialects even in the small land area that is our nation. Fog is to the North East and Newcastle especially as much a regional characteristic as palm trees to the English Riviera and Torquay.

My thoughts go to the song by the folk-rock group Lindisfarne of "Fog on the Tyne" rings loud and clear in my mind and will form a main influence on what others consider to be one of my most annoying traits, that of whistling and humming as I go about my day.

So, the story.

It involves the driver of a motor vehicle. The original era of the tale explains why the driver is also very intoxicated as the anti-social and very dangerous practice of drink driving was pretty widespread at that time.

He is very much worse for wear after a heavy session in his local public house. It has taken him some thirty minutes to find his way through the pea-souper fog from the Smoking Lounge outer door to the slightly less foggy atmosphere in the car. He sits slumped at the wheel in the pub car park appearing to be deep in thought. This does not mean that he is having a serious battle with his conscience on the moral arguments behind drink driving but because he cannot actually lift up his head to see out of the windscreen.

There is the option of sleeping it off where he is but that would just cause too much aggravation with his wife who would be pretending to sleep awaiting his return. He has no real option but to make for the open road and try to negotiate the fog to get home.

It is then that the man makes out a familiar image although somewhat blurred and indistinct making its way across the car park to another vehicle. It is his neighbour who has been in the pub, but perfectly sober due to his responsibilities for running the Pigeon Fanciers Club in an upstairs meeting room.

A perfect plan takes shape in the befuzzled brain of our man.

If the neighbour is himself going straight home, which knowing the strait laced chap is almost a certainty, then by carefully following the red tail-lights he would be guided to his very doorstep.

It was a struggle to insert the keys into the ignition and to co-ordinate the otherwise automatic process of making a car move. The neighbour's vehicle edged in reverse out of its space very slowly as the driver was nervous in the weather conditions, after all he rarely went out other than on pigeon related business.

Progress was slow enough for our man to simply fall in behind and focus intently on the two  bright red glowing spots so typical of the rear cluster of an Austin Allegro. These ember-like illuminations would be his constant companion for some time ahead. The pub was his longstanding local, even from his underage drinking years, but he had moved away in later years from the tightly packed terraced surroundings to a newer estate on the other side of the town. The familiarity and compansionship amongst his peers was still a strong draw even when involving a car journey.

The fear of losing his guiding light was enough to make him seriously tailgate his neighbour who must have been terrified by the red-devil appearance in his rear view mirror. The emphasis of fierce redness was increased with the prudent switching on of the high intensity fog lighting immediately on pulling out onto the highway.

To any poor soul out walking on that damp night, although the reason for venturing out in such foul weather would be questionable, the scene of two almost interconnected cars must have looked strange.

A distinct difference in driving styles would also be apparent. The lead car, smooth, good road position, frequent appropriate gear changes and a strict adherence to every page of the highway code. Behind, a kangaroo jumping, erratic and reckless passage with kerbs and street furniture clipped or shaved with an occasional cascade of sparks.

Constant peril seemed to be reducing the influence of alcohol and our man was becoming slowly more aware of his surroundings but the fog remained impenetrable and there were no landmarks by which to guage where they were in the town.

The involuntary good shepherd was not taking a direct route home after all, perhaps trying to shake off the manic motorist behind and keen to avoid any road rage incident. Sat Nav would have been some use but such technology was alien and intrusive to a man who respected the navigation skills of the occupants of the loft in his garden above anything man-made.

Crawling along distances were measured in tenths of a mile. On low beam the worst dazzling effects of the sheer white wall of suspended water vapour could be avoided although there was a temptation to use it if anything loomed up ahead, such as The Town Hall, Labour Exchange and Football Ground.

The hands, gripping the steering wheel in the rear car were aching now from effort and a swift end to the journey was prayed for in between snatches of drunken popular song.

Up front the quiet unassuming man was similarly stressed but then he recognised the outline of an exquisitely shaped privet hedge which was a major feature at the opening of his street.

Peering through the moisture dappled windscreen it was a case of counting the dropped kerbs to his own.

Suddenly, and without warning the front car stopped abruptly in a full blaze of brake and fog lights. There was a sickening sound of bumper to bumper impact and tinkling glass lenses as the rear vehicle slammed into the now stationary one.

Angry at having crashed, our drunkard lurched out of his car or at least as far as the secured seat belt would permit at the first attempt. Freeing himself he stood looking at the crumpled front bonnet area and shouted out "what have you ****** well stopped for you big *******?"

The answer was succint and without any other interpretation. "I'm parked in my garage, that's why"