Pigeon Club

by

Gregg R. Gillespie

 

 

They're all there, all twenty or so of them, and they've all been around the areas of Southampton England all their lives.  Actually there's a couple who have strayed, but for reasons only they know, they keep returning; keep coming back from as far away places such as Australia, back to visit the "Pigeon Club. 

There are a few, patron members, who are not affiliated with the good-old-boys group, but they take full advantage of the club activities all the same. 

In another time another place, during the era called Victorian England, or maybe the "roaring twenties", they might have been called a gang – Hell they're a gang anyway.  And if at any given time one speaks to any of them, they will have nothing but words of praise and love for their mates.  Yes, love for this is England, and it isn't wrong or thought wrong for one man to say he love another.

       One must remember, these blokes were born here, most of them will die here.  And it is unfortunate that in their lives, most came from areas of the city that didn't scream out with words, or the outward appearance of affluence, very few of them show an education value above an adequate English education, and yet, when speaking to them in this heaven sent pub-club, they all are knowledgeable in a diverse category of subject on discussion, even though not well read in each of the chosen subjects.

To find the Pigeon Club one must travel to Southampton, and then into St Deny's: an small neighbourhood area of the city: and the chances are better than none, you would never find the place, [hell, many of the taxi drivers have never heard of it] and brief description on how to find the building housing the pigeon club isn't possible.  First one must take road out of Southampton to St. Deny's, over the railway bridge, down a narrow roadway of attached houses, all brick, some shabby, some standing straight and tall, and yet, although each the same, they are all distinctively different. 

The difference between these buildings is seen in the wooden trim around the front doors and the windows, or in the lack of paint, although all showed both age and wear.  Another distinction, is the various colours used to paint the front doors; reds, greens, browns, blues, some with no colour match, and the same colour was not always used on the remaining wooden trim of the house either.

       The area between the front of the house and the sidewalk is less than ten feet, in some the smallest patch of lawn is so well kept it looks as if someone had hand trimmed each blade of grass by hand, and yet a planting of any kind is few and far between.  Most areas in front of the houses have long since been cemented over, some painted green, others stacked with garbage, for you see this it the area of the working poor folk, and these people didn't have time to fret about keeping a front lawn.  The toll of years has produced cracks in the paved patches.  Yes you find little green here, except maybe, just maybe, the one or two sprouts of grass that have managed to push up through the inches of cement or tile.   To say these homes have no front yard is an over statement.  What might have been an eight by ten patch of glorious green is now cement, and it is unfortunate there is little room, no room for anything except to park a bicycle, maybe a motorcycle. 

       Most of the window treatments were a cheap lace type material, some clean, some dirty enough to be shades of brown or grey.  Some had little more than a full page of a decade old newspaper, a covering that had long ago turned yellow with age. or it might have been cut up cardboard boxes that may be a natural advertising for paper towels or such. 

       As one move across the bridge, and although on the same street, the sign no longer reads Highfield Road, and now the sign affixed twelve feet up the side of the building wall reads St Deny's Road.  The first thing one will notice on the opposite side, is a large flower shop, but the windows are either so dirty one can't see in, or covered with collection of a heavy humidity inside of the building.  It is difficult if not impossible to see the floral arrangement and flowers inside.  Stepping off the curb, one has to be sure to look in the proper direction – in England, the drivers don't seem to slow down when turning a corner, they just do it.  Across from the Floral shoppe, on the same side of the street, is St Deny's church, an old edifice, of dirty soot covered bricks and unkempt lawns.  There is a new parking tarmac near the front of the church, and its flat black surface is the only thing new to be seen in the whole neighbourhood.

       Continuing up the same side of the street, at the next corner, a junk shop – some might call it a place to find collectibles, but any resemblance to collectibles in this shop is purely coincidental.  The little gentleman inside must be making some money or he wouldn't be able to pay the rent, and utilities.  At the window one has to squint just to peer through the dirty glass.  Inside everything seems to be laden with dust.  It's is visibly obvious this place hasn't been cleaned in years—the few items you can see, candy tin, soup bowl, a few baking pans, a couple of brass door knockers, all you can see are covered with dirt, not dust.  Most of what is inside, even the Charity shops of England would refuse to display.  [By the way, Charity Shops are called Thrift Stores in America.]

       One more block on the same side of the street, an intersection with a traffic light on St Deny's and Priory Road – strange for there is no cross traffic, and this control seems fully out of place – why put a traffic light where it isn't need?  On the opposite side of the street, a shop devoted to Western Wear, the type of clothing more fitting with the Country-Western area Unites States, some replicas of American Indian war bonnet, resplendent with red fathers, bead work and all glare out from the windows.  There is also a full array of unpainted plaster craft or bisque ceramic ware.  There is one unpainted piece, that stands out from all the rest.  It is brilliant white, and about a foot or more in height. 

       There are a few other little shops of no importance on the same side of the street, and judging from the draperies hanging from windows, some turned into apartments.  On the opposite corner, where one must make a left turn.  If looking for the Pigeon club – and we must not loose track of the fact this is the place we started for—is an Indian Kebab shop; fast food non the less.  The Indian shops catering to small bits of edible food—grilled on a skewer are everywhere, they seem to be Southampton's answer to the American quick-food. 

       Turning left, and half a block away down Priory road, is an intersecting street were suppose to be looking for.  But it is a dead end street, and appears to go no where.  Where do we go now?

The housing in the area is the same, although better kept than on St Deny's Road, but here cars are parked on the street in front of the houses. 

One quickly learns Priory road is a dead end, and assumes the only people who would turn onto this lost road would be the people who live in the row of attached houses, or onto the small street with no name.  Passing down the street, four houses on each side, and you will find a huge, fading red lettering of a sign on and equally decolourised white building, 'The Priory Timber Company.'  Nearing the chain link fence of the timber company, you see a narrow driveway on the left, and on the right side of the driveway, the green roofed, two story brown building.  The sign says it is the St Deny's Sailing and Rowing Club – but there is no sign to herald this fact.  The sailing club utilizes the ground floor and our glorious Pigeon Club operates on first floor. [In England, what in America is the second level of a building is called the first floor.]

       As described the building is brown, the door leading to the Pigeon Club is blazing white, there is no indication where it might lead.  Entering, three steps leading up to the left, then five additional steps to the right, and one is on the first floor. 

The immediate sensation is the overwhelming smell of deodorant cakes from the urinals in the men's room, it is to the left at the top of the stair.  The ladies room is on the right, and with the door open most to the time, appears to be more of a store room than a the anti room of a ladies convenience. 

Through the double swinging doors a quick side step to the right, and one enters the outer sanctum of the Pigeon club.  Outer Sanctorum in there is no sign of a bar , it appears to be more of a dance hall, or meeting room, than a place for dispensing of drinks. 

If you enter without falling over the billiard table, the next impression is a wooden dance floor, a floor in desperate need of a refinishing, or it to be more precise it was in need of refinishing ten years ago, or, and because of the condition of the floor, it could be a room used for display shows, such as used to introduce new fashions to the world.  It's quite large, about 7.5m x 18.25m [24 x 60 foot] size, [walls and ceiling painted white, a colour that has discoloured with the multiple occasions frequented by smokers, but of course this could be an optical illusion for the lights are not bright enough to show a true reflection of the pigmentation. 

Incised into a row fitting neatly along the right and left walls, one third of the way down the walls, are windows, five on one side, four on the other, deep set showing the thickness of the walls.  Above each, an unnoticed cornices, and dangling in a careless manner deep red drapes, they are pushed back, looking like dark pillars, and from a distance they appear to be velvet, but in the half light of the room, it is difficult to tell.

Almost snuggled along the right side of the room, as if pushed back to an extreme position, so as not to interfere with the wooden floor, are built in padded benches, the back of which creeps up the walls to meet the bottom sill of the windows, and offer another place to stuff the drapes into.  In an effort to create individual areas, four small three foot long tables have been placed at intervals in front of the benches, and two padded chairs, their backs to the dance floor, have been placed on the outer side of each table.  In the far right corner of the room, the benches, bend at a ninety degree angle, to almost touch an overworked fruit machine, its called a fruit machine, but in some places it is called a slot machine, and next to this noisy mechanism is the door leading to the drinking portion of the Pigeon Club. 

       Looking down the left side, about 4 to 4.5m [12 to 15 feet] is an open space for those some desired can play darts, [It must be remembered in England to play darts isn't a sport, it is a Religion.].  The dart board is hanging, well used on the a partition wall that was side stepped earlier a the top of the entry stairs.  Close at hand are more tables and this time padded chairs, no benches.  The tables are set at right angles to the wall, extending into the room about .5m [3 feet].  Each side of the tables are matching chairs to other side of the room.  The fabric on all of the furniture is brown, a simulated leather that might have been old ten years ago, well used, and may someday have to be replaced – but not now, not today.  Four tables, eight to ten chair, and the bright lights of the juke box blares out from the corner, the plastic protected CD's fanning out in a half circle, reaching out to entice those who might want to deposit the coin that would bring the contraption to life.  Next to it, and almost as a companion to the slot machine is a video game, [although neither one of these machines appear to get as much use and the fruit machine], and next to the machine the door to the pub.

Back along the wall from the entry stairs in the back right corner, is another set of doors—one would have to again side-step the billiard table  for entry —this leads to the kitchen, everyone knows its there, but seldom has anyone seen inside, nor does anyone seem too care to, after all a kitchen is the women's world and this is a man's club. 

       As described earlier, the centre of the room is a raw wooden floor, not polished as one might expect of a good dance floor, it doesn't even look as if it has been washed or scrubbed at any time during this century.  Yet one is verbally assured dances are held, and when there is a live performance things can really get jumping.  Through the week, on a daily basis, there is a full schedule of darts, cribbage, dancing, and although this is predominately a man's bar, on Tuesday nights the men give in and call it Ladies Night, a night when the occasional male strippers is brought in to entertain the female patrons. [When those type of performances are going on, the men stay in the pub room.]

Then almost as an after-thought, as if someone had prepared this room for human use and later discovered they had forgotten something, the door to the actual pub sits smack dab in the centre of the far back wall, and depending on your point of view, a gate way to heaven or hell. 

Entering, one finds on the right the actual bar of the pub.  The door sits open, all the time, pushing back against the bar, or as a screen to shelter someone who doesn't' want to be seen, behind the door.

       

 

The bar, the actual low bench that beverages are served on or across, is typical of what one thinks of when the words "English Pub" is spoken.  A smooth wooden surface, 4 to 4.5m [12 to 15 feet], with a wooden front and a wooden appendage hanging overhead, in this case, not the aged wood or heavy paneling, but what appears to be what has become standard paneling with dark lines separating the grains.  The difference here, the wood doesn't appear to be over ten years old.  In this bar, the overhead accessory is to give the effect of a traditional feature more than the aged ones found in other pubs.  The bar itself is of a dark rich wood, and may be older than anything in the building.  There is no brass foot rail, no high stools sitting before the bar, [although on other occasions the stools were in place.] but eight glass beer mugs hand from the overhead section.  There is no uniformity, and the glasses are unique in advertising that has been silk screened on them.  Almost in the centre, now quite, off set slightly to the left as one looks at it, is the faucets used to dispense the beverages most people come into this pub to drink.

Behind the bar, starting on the left, is a small refrigerator, about 4m [4 feet] tall, with a glass door.  The interior fluorescent casts a blue tinted light on the canned and bottle beverages inside – remembering ice is seldom used in drinks in England.  Next to the refrigerator, sitting almost as an after-thought, is the work area, almost as if it had be placed there because no one else knew where to put it—and it is a jumble of all sort of things.  Along the back counter there are a few glasses, but nothing seems to be in order.  Hanging up-side down, looking as if they had been well used, and were now set up for drying, is the hard liquor beverages, Scotch, Rum, Whiskey—dispensing valves inserted into the end of each, and all waiting for the next bloke to come in and order that beverage.  In all, maybe ten bottles with no additional room for new product.

                                    

To the immediate left, of the entry door, a 68cm [27 inch] table  television, always on, and most of the time, not with sports programs as might be expected in a man's pub.  The group gathers in this room and seem to be very fond of the Nature Channel.  On the wall, a slick, unframed, photograph of a group of four men, all dressed in tuxedo's, men who were involved with Big Dave when he participated in a comedy radio program.  Next to the picture, in the outer wall, is another door, with a faded electric exit sign announcing its purpose.  But the sign doesn't tell the door also leads to a large covered balcony that looks down on the launching ramp for the boat club below, and overlooks the Icthen River, and looks out on the Bitterne area of Southampton on the opposite shore.. 

In the same wall of the door, is windows that duplicate the other room, but here, the drapes appear to be much longer, by at least a foot, and are drawn, the bottom of the fabric billows out a little onto the back of the padded seats, padded benches matching those in the other room.  Here are three small round tables, along with a few assorted padded chairs, chairs that are quickly moved into the other room when there are special event taking place.  The padded benches are built into the walls of the corner, and form an "L" shape.

As said, the difference with this bar, comes from its patrons.  Almost all have were born into and raised into the generic English Family, families that have for centuries been the foundation of the throne and the backbone of the country. 

As long as one is in this pub, what they do, what they have, what they have done, or plan to do, has little or no meaning.  In here they are referred to as blokes, and mates.  If and when any of them are referred to by their station or profession, it is said in whispers, for you see the outside doesn't exist while one is in the Pigeon Club. 

The most visible bloke, and he is not always there, but there is a certain quiet respect shown to him, for you see, he is the God-Father, or at least that is the name by which he is referred to in whispers.  He isn't a member of the inner circle twenty, he is a welcomed outsider, a man who has spent most of his adult life in the shadow as number two of the English Mafia.  In addition there are men who had served time in prison for murder, there is the ex-mercenary soldier who has serve all over the world, and responsible for more deaths than he, himself, would care to admit, there's a cat burglar who admittedly makes his living breaking into private homes and stealing what items he could.  There are self styled con-men, city and government employees, artists, cross dressers—although in the Pigeon Club they are always dress straight, men hiding from their wives, and as the old expression goes, butcher, baker, and candlestick makers.  They're all here, and if they are not, wait an hour, two at the most, and a missing link will walk in the door. 

And if this is not enough of a collection, it must be remembered any list that could be scribbled here does not include any of the twenty buddies who are the very basis for the Pigeon Club, the buddies obey the law, never violating their friendships, or their feelings of affection for each other, feeling that go back fifty or more years.

 

Ah yes, in trying to describe the Pigeon Club, I forgot the one thing that was vital too, and was in fact, the Pigeon.  I am of course speaking of Dave Hill.  His the owner and proprietor of the club.  He is the glue that holds it all together. 

When you first meet him, he will hug you, and I guarantee, you have been hugged like this before.  Your head will be pressed into the huge chest, as he will bleat out the words of welcome, 

 

I can also so, with the hug, you can feel the words of well are true, and come from this giant of a man's heart. 

 

 

                                            

See You At the Pigeon Club!

and if you are lucky

you too can meet

Dave Hill!