(In the UK the "Glorious Twelfth" is the 12th of August which is the first day of the grouse shooting season - glorious for some but by no means all. But could the term have another origin?)
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A quiet evening at the Boar’s Head Tavern (managed by the
redoubtable Mistress Quickly) rarely stayed quiet for long. Sir John Falstaff
was always present, and he was often joined by other noted Shakespearean drunks
such as Stephano, Macbeth’s porter and Sir Toby Belch, all three of whom had
turned up on the night in question. There was little chance of sobriety
reigning supreme, but every chance of violence ensuing before chucking-out
time.
Tonight’s company was increased by the presence of Iago, who
had once remarked on the capacity of the English to hold their drink. He had
famously told Cassio that “your Dane, your German and your swag-bellied
Hollander are nothing to your English” when it came to what he termed “potting”.
Iago seemed to be there for the sole purpose of testing his
theory. There were no Germans or Hollanders, swag-bellied or otherwise, in the
company but two English drinkers and two who were non-English. Iago had the
perfect opportunity to continue his career as a troublemaker by sowing
dissension in the assembled company.
Sir John Falstaff, ever the genial host, offered to buy Iago
a pint of Mistress Quickly’s finest ale but Iago turned down his offer. “You
must forgive me”, he said, “but I have a very poor head for alcohol. It only takes one drink to get me under the
table”.
“I know what you mean”, said Sir John. “Just one pint has
the same effect on me”.
The assembled company stared at him, as this was clearly one
of the least true things he had ever said.
“The problem is”, Sir John continued, “I can never remember
whether that one pint is the 13th or the 14th”.
After the laughter had died down, Iago made his offer.
“Let’s find out”, he said. “Let’s just see how many pints you English can take
on board. We’ll make it a team challenge – the porter and Stephano against Sir
John and Sir Toby. Keep pouring the pints, Mistress Quickly, and let’s see who are
the better drinkers.”
“And just who’s going to pay for all this?” asked the
landlady. “This lot already have tabs so long that I’ve had to add a charge for
all the extra chalk I’ve been using.”
“I can lend them the money”, said a voice from the corner.
“At my usual terms of interest, naturally”. Seeing that the voice belonged to
Shylock there was nobody who thought that this was a good idea.
“Don’t worry about the cash”, said Iago, “all the expenses
are being met by Othello, although he doesn’t know this yet. Line ‘em up,
Mistress Quickly, and let’s get started.”
And so that is what she did. Four rows of pints were placed
on the bar and the competitors worked their way along. After the first five
pints there was nothing to tell between them, with all four maintaining a
steady hand and their speech being fully understandable – although in the case
of the Glaswegian porter one had to keep in mind that he was not all that
understandable to begin with.
However, the sixth pint gave Stephano a few problems, and
even Sir Toby Belch was clearly feeling the strain after pint number seven. They
struggled to number eight before both Stephano and Sir Toby slid to the floor
and a loud snore arose from the latter.
It was now up to Sir John to keep English hopes alive in
sole battle against the doughty Scot, but it only took one more pint for the
latter to admit defeat, with a suitably obscene Scottish curse.
However, Sir John appeared to be perfectly fit and more than
willing to continue his way along the bar, no doubt buoyed by the fact that all
the ale was free.
There was a reason for his victory that should perhaps have
been appreciated by those present. This was that he had been late arriving at
the Boar’s Head that evening, due to an altercation with a man in the street
who had called him a fat pig and been flattened by Sir John as a result. The latter
had therefore had to explain himself to an officer of the law who had taken a
long and detailed statement that occupied a considerable portion of Sir John’s
usual drinking time. This had not been the case with Sir Toby, Stephano or the
porter, all of whom had knocked back a goodly amount of alcohol before Sir John
had managed to get started. Indeed, the discrepancy was so great that none of
the other three had been minded to complain because they were already past the
point of noticing that the fight was hardly a fair one.
That said, there was every chance that Sir John might have
won anyway, given his well-founded reputation for knocking back the booze.
Having won hands down, he then did what could only be
described as a lap of honour, with added commentary.
“This is it”, he said, reaching for the next pint. “This is
the splendid tenth”. Down it went, soon to be followed by what he termed “the
magnificent eleventh”. He then reached for the final glass on the bar, still
upright and lucid.
“Ladies and Gentlemen”, he declared. “I toast you all and
wish you every joy, with what I can only describe as The Glorious Twelfth”.
© John Welford
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