Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 23 - A Thorough Disgrace
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
The celebrations hadn't even begun when some serious altercation happened at the bar. This bloke from Alwoodley Chess Club by the name of Dave – we learnt afterwards – had been hovering around, and when Bolter, a well known chess player propositioned him for pint of sweet cider at the bar, Dave headbutted him.
All hell broke loose, and Roster, eager to help stop the fight, launched himself, but couldn't get past a Brittania table, which collapsed, without any ceremony at all, under the weight of Roster.
It was all becoming very crude by this time. Vindaloo Ken had entered into a vicious shouting match with a well known lesbian by the Gary, who could stand her ground and hit Vindaloo Ken with Bennie's wallet, wrongly thinking it held weight. Vindaloo Ken felt only a feather like breeze, and strongly grappled both his big arms around Gary and lifted the lesbian up by the buttocks. Gary, recalled afterwards, 'Never before and never again.'
However, in another part of SupaSnooker, Stricknine was telling some new chess player how to torture people on a chessboard.
Finally, the black and white locals, and some yellow and brown local snooker players as well, had had enough, and urged the manager, 'Fucking bar this fucking freak show!'
The manager dutifully obliged, and the freak show headed off to the Dredgepot Public House across the car park and into the back room there.
Once all were inside, the room was packed. That Dave bloke from Alwoodley was already well pissed by this time and trying a pirouette on Roster's table with Manny Wheelman looking up intently with bought beer drooling down his unshaven chin. Think had to intervene to tell him to stop. His wife was at home waiting for him. Manny couldn't quite work that one out and kept staring up at the Alwoodly bloke now gyrating.
Vindaloo Ken, though, never noticed a thing. He was in a world of his own: 'I was the first man to lift that woman up by the buttocks!' he recalled.
Ian, in another corner, said to his mate, 'It's the paint, Barney.'
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About Karl Swainston
Karl Swainston is a writer and storyteller whose work is forged from a life lived across the North of England and far beyond. Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s, Karl's journey was anything but linear. By the age of thirty, he had already lived a dozen lives: from the rigors of grammar school to a degree in Latin, a stint as a fishmonger, a period of discovery living in Marseille, and a return to the hustle of London. Whether working as a postman, a builder, or competing as a county-level chess player, he was, above all, an avid reader—constantly documenting the world around him. This restless spirit continued into his professional life. Karl later taught in Bradford, where he ran a specialist unit for 244 of the most excluded students from across the region—young people whom even the local Pupil Referral Units could not accommodate. Working alongside his old friend Malcolm, Karl spent his days navigating the volatility of Bradford's most aggressive and dysfunctional teenagers. Throughout his life, Karl has been an avid runner and has always shared his home with a rotating cast of beloved dogs and cats—companions who have been constant witnesses to his work. As a writer, Karl's range is as expansive as his history. He works across a wide breadth of genres, including fiction and short stories, autobiography and memoir, biography, non-fiction, and metaphysical writing, as well as providing sharp commentary, opinion, analysis, and essays. Whether writing about his years managing the Harrogate Arms or offering insights from his current adopted home in South East India, where he lives in a simple village with his dog, Bambi, Karl's voice reflects the full, untidy, and deeply human breadth of life. He continues to draw on the rich, decades-long tapestry of his experiences to tell stories that matter, proving that no matter where you live, the human story remains the same.
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