Stolen from the Gods
The traveller staggered out of the blizzard into the long hall.

Its sole occupant wasn't particularly surprised by his appearance; he'd long grown accustomed to the distance the fame of his hall had travelled. It quickly became apparent that occupant and traveller did not share a common tongue although a few words were available from the language of the southern tribes. Communication was painstakingly established through the medium of sign and gesture and the little that both understood.

The traveller gestured expansively and spoke to question the identity of the occupant.

"Promutu." he replied. The traveller grinned broadly; he had come to the right place. The traveller gave his name as Anak. He continued, indicating that he had travelled far and braved many dangers - including some large creature, probably a bear, and a wide river that he had been forced to swim across. Promutu tried to look interested; he had heard similar stories for the past dozen years or so.

Now they came down to the purpose of Anaks quest. "Want... Sacred Fire."
The last two words were in Promutu's own tongue, and had probably been passed from tribe to tribe until they had reached the erstwhile hero.

"What got?" conveyed Promutu. He had a nice hall and the attentions of the young maidens of the village not only through his ability to make Fire, but also through his finely honed trading skills.

Anak produced a fur bundle from his backpack and emptied its contents out onto the main table. Amongst the animal skins and polished stones, a glint of metal caught Promutu's eye. He pulled out a leather loop on which was threaded an amulet - silver, unless he missed his guess. It was worked with crude symbols, and Anaks eyes lit up as he attempted to convey its value.
Eventually Promutu worked out that it was supposed to prevent evil spirits from attacking the wearer.

Promutu thought for a moment, then held up two fingers. Anak looked suitably shocked, and held up five. After much facial contortion and baring of teeth, they settled on three, with an option on the fourth for the skins.

Promutu chuckled to himself. The traveller was young, and strong, but he had no experience with Fire. He motioned one of his bodyguards, who fetched the container. Promutu set a clay bowl on the table, and poured the traveller a generous helping of Sacred Fire.

Three? He'd be unconscious after two.

(note: no wonder Prometheus was punished by having his liver torn out every day)
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:54, Reply)

pearoast
its saturday night i was in town for a couple of pints with my sister and one of my mates, the first pub we went into was full of under-age chavy people so we didnt hang around. in the second place we went to (the market tavern, if you ever find yourself in atherstone and want some good ale i reccomend it) we were sat drinking when a young girl (probably 12ish) walks in, my sister says "now she is definitely under-age"

in one of my (now thankfully) rare quick as anything comeback moments(in otherwords brain not connected to mouth) i replied by grabbing my crotch and saying "i reckon she is just the right age"

it goes without saying that my sister and my friend were horrified (while trying and failing to not fall out of their seats with laughter) while the old timer at the table next to us just shuffled uncomfortably
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:50, Reply)

So, I was surrounded by transexuals...
There's a bar near the place I used to work which was quickly established as the local for my office - a combination of a happy hour which started as working hours finished, cheap pizza and some barmaids so beautiful that they would make the baby Jesus cry.

Naturally, I was there practically every day. After about a year of drinking there, I was well established as a regular - on the occasions they charged to get in, I was ushered straight through with whoever I was with, and was given the occasional free drink. I never really got to know any of the bar staff personally, but was recognised by them all, so never had to wait my turn if I wanted to order a drink.

New Year a year or two ago, I was put in charge of sorting out a venue to go to with a few friends. Not wanting to spend New Year in the bar I sat in virtually every day, I ended up going for a club down the road which we'd all been to before, and had always been a good night. But this New Year fell on a Sunday. We hadn't been to this club on a Sunday before.

We were all looking forward to a night of drink, dancing and girls with loosened inhibitions, and set out in high spirits. However, alarm bells started ringing early on, when one of the guys I was out with turned to me and said, "The two blokes in front of me in the queue are kissing."

"So what?" I reply, "This is London - it's not that unusual..."

"Yeah," he continues, "But there's a bloke behind you dressed in drag as well. What night is it here, exactly?!"

And so, of course, it transpired that I had taken my three single friends for a night out on the pull at 'London's Premier Polysexual New Years Eve Party'. Oops. No wonder the fucker who sold me the tickets was stifling a giggle, but didn't once mention that I should expect it to be different from any other night out.

We made the most of it, and on the whole had a reasonable night. None of us are in the slightest homophobic, fortunately, but we had planned a night of booze-soaked midnight groping. Instead, we were surrounded by butch men, even butcher lesbians, hot lesbians, and ladyboys. There might have been some straight girls there, but none of us were really up for playing the cock-lottery. The bells rang out, and we shook hands and banged back a shot of tequila. I had failed in organising what should have been a cert for a great night out. And I was reminded of this. Several times. With swearing.

We left soon after, and desperate to salvage something from the night, I called the local on my mobile. The phone rang and rang and rang. I was on the verge of hanging up when the manager answered. HAMMERED.

I quickly explained that we were on our way, that he would recognise me, that we didn't tickets but I'd thank him eternally if we could come in.

"I think I know who this is..." he slurred. "You can come in mate, but we're shut. It's just me and the bar staff here, so it'll be a lock-in..."

I nearly cried tears of joy.

From 1am till gone 4, I was in my favourite bar, drinking, smoking weed, and playing pool with women who wouldn't have looked out of place on magazine covers. At one point I was behind the bar serving drinks to THEM, and from the second we walked through the door where the manager welcomed us with open arms, we didn't pay for a single thing. And, just to top it all, we all had successes of varying degrees with the bar staff.

It remains solidly the best New Year I've ever had, especially since the weird beginning of the night led on to something which probably would have never otherwise had happened.

Find a good pub. Drink there regularly. Amazing things will happen. I'll be telling that to my grandkids.
(Sloppy Giuseppe, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:30, Reply)

Mayday Bank Holiday
In my local the Morris Men always stop in for a tankard or two on their Mayday jaunt round town. One year all of the Morris men tension came bubbling to the surface.

There was a drunken row going on between two members of the troupe, with one of them accusing the other of shagging his wife. Then it kicked off. These two guys wearing top hats with flowers on, blacked up faces and covered in bells started fighting each other with sticks. It sounded just the same as a real dance but drew a much bigger audience and more cheers.
(fatcock has decided to be more mysterious.....or has he?, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:30, 2 replies)

a bit like greyhounds post below (i.e. sneaking stuff in)
we were in wetherspoons, rather hungry but alas there was no food as their weekly delivery had been delayed (and being students at teh time had only a short amount of time before we had to go back to lectures.

when you and your friends are sat at a table with full pints of cheap ale staring back at you what do you do?

thats right play rock paper scissors to see who goes to the KFC round the corner and smuggles the food back in

we would have got away with it if it were not for a certain greedy sod (not me by the way the rest of us ate as quickly as possible and stashed the empty boxes out of sight, to be taken away by us when we left obviously) who ordered a bucket for himself, i think what added insult to injury and got us kicked out when the barmaid came round to collect empty glasses from our table only to find a guy munching away on the colenel's finest coated in their mayonnaise and tomato ketchup
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:29, Reply)

Quick and dirty Pearoast, but it fits:
The air hung still and heavy, seemingly anchored by the thick, omnipresent haze of cigarette smoke – a subtle smell that permeated everyone and everything in the bar as surely as the melancholy meandering notes of the lone saxophone player sat in the corner.

I wouldn’t have noticed her if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of her in the dram of single-malt I had put to my lips, her beauty unmistakable even in the rippling sepia tone of her reflection.

But most importantly, it was she who had been staring at me, her eyes locked on my back. I halted the scotch’s progress and turned to meet her gaze.

Jade eyes shimmered in a soft, slender face framed in luxurious waves of silky ebony hair, finished with a soft smile that glistened on ruby lips. Her cheeks tinted rose, either from being caught staring or from the empty cocktail glass delicately clasped in her right hand.

I raised the whiskey and tilted it, raising an eyebrow with a slightly cheeky smile of my own. She stood, gathering her purse and walked over to the bar, placing the small red bag between us before elegantly slipping her seductive form onto a barstool beside me, the cut of her little black dress offering a hint of thigh. She turned and smiled demurely.
I finally grew brave enough to break the silence.

“Might I offer you a drink?”

She accepted my offer, and as we sipped from our alcohol of choice we talked. We talked about ourselves, we talked about each other, we spoke of poetry, of vice and of virtue. We spoke for hours, delighting in each other’s company, our drinks left virtually untouched before us as the night grew darker.

I found I loved to make her laugh, watching her joy was a delight in itself, and I shared with her the numerous anecdotes and escapades that comprised of my life. She drank them in, blushing with that incredible demure smile as I likened her hair to the majesty of Hawaiian waterfalls, flushing rose as I asked her in turn of her life.

I sat, in rapt attention, my gaze never straying from hers, blushing a little myself as I caught my gaze becoming lost in her beautiful eyes time and time again. A bond had formed between us, two strangers speaking of life and sharing ours with each other over blushes and shy smiles, simple attraction giving way to a simple need for each other’s company, one that grew more and more romantic as the lighting began to dim, the other patrons taking their leave one by one until we were the only souls there, the barman making himself scarce.

The conversation faltered, leaving us both blushing as we realized we had slowly gravitated towards each other, now scant inches separating our eyes. Then she kissed me.

Our lips met as she softly shut her eyes, a brief embrace of the flesh. Somewhere, somehow, our hands found each other, palms pressed together as she pulled back, her cheeks aflame.

“I-I shouldn’t h-have…” She stammered, softly, and I rushed to stop her.

“I love you, Janice.” The words passed my lips with nary a thought, and I knew then, that very moment, that for once in my life it was true.

Her face crumpled, the delicate trickle of tears tracing matching lines down her face, and I caught her as she leant forwards, wrapping my arms around her and drawing her close.

“Shhh…Shhh… It’ll be alright…”

She sobbed into my chest, pressing herself deeper into my embrace as I made soothing noises, softly stroking the back of her head with gentle motions.

“I s-shouldn’t l-love you… Michael.”

I tilted my head, placing a soft kiss on her forehead, as she mumbled into my shirt.

“Shhh…Shhh… It’ll be alright…”

“M-Marcellus s-sends his regards.”

Oh.

I felt the heat of the shot before I heard it. The sudden blossom of warmth on my sternum registered briefly, all too quickly replaced with a sharp flush of searing agony as the bullet tore a messy exit wound in my back.

My eyes flew open just in time to meet hers.

The hammer fell a second time, the muzzle of the revolver pressed into my ribs.

I gasped, not through shock but necessity as my left lung was punctured a second time.

The cylinder clicked smoothly into place again, a fresh round in the chamber, the hammer falling immediately as the trigger travelled it’s full course, and again and again as she fired another two shots, tearing involuntary strangled noises from my throat with each crack of the pistol.

The only thing I could think of was that she stopped on the fifth round, a smooth, practiced economy of motion that belied her appearances. An assassin’s control. It was then I knew how completely I had been fooled.

I caught a glimpse of her tear-streaked face as I slumped, my arms slipping from around her as I fell against the bar. My legs refused to hold me, and gravity won as I slid down the lacquered hardwood, smearing the mahogany with scarlet as I finally came to rest on the floor, sitting against the bar in a rapidly growing pool of my blood.

My strength left me completely, my chin sinking to my chest as I coughed arterial crimson in thin streams, my suit already soaked through, the blood still under pressure even as my heart stopped beating.

I barely heard the barstool hitting the floorboards beside me, nor did I see Janice sinking to her knees in front of me – but I felt her hand as it lifted my head, her lips finding mine once more. I focused on her touch through a supreme effort of will, fighting back the darkness with what little I had left.

“I s-shouldn’t love you, M-Michael. I w-wish I didn’t…”

She held me this time, her tears warming my neck as I felt her sobbing through my ruined chest.

My vision dimmed, my eyelids now too heavy to hold open, my legs now utterly numb as I fought for every tortured, broken breath.

“Hhhnghh… sssshhhhh…sh...shhh…”

My lips moved wordlessly as her slender frame shook against me.

“…t’ll…be all…all…”

I couldn’t hold it any longer. I choked, wheezing as I coughed red foam, the irony tang of blood filling the air, my once pristine shirt now a deep burgundy.

“N-no, i-it won’t.”

My mouth moved ineffectually. I no longer had the strength to draw breathe, never mind speak, but I heard it in my mind, and I could only pray she could read it on my lips.

“I love you, Janice.”

She kissed me one last time on the forehead, and I knew it was the last thing I would ever feel.

“I love you, Michael.”

The hammer struck a sixth, final note.
(DarkLite swallowed my entire undercarriage, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:25, 8 replies)

I was 16 going on 17.....
.....at sixth form college.
There was a student night at a club in Portsmouth that me and my mate decided to go to.
We arrived at Portsmouth station and proceeded to enter the first pub we came across for some "pre-party drinks".
We supped our pints of cider very slowly (as we were only young) and commented on the lack of females in the establishment.
That was because it was a Gay man's pub (about 2 lesbian couples in but that didn't really register at the time). Not that Gay pubs are bad, just when you're 17 and not wanting to appear anything other than hetero of the year it's a bit stressful!
But this was bit a mere prelude to the main event of my tale.
The next pub/bar we dared enter seemed ok. We strolled up to the bar, ordered our beers (no ID required, nice).
Next we notice 2 lads next to us drinking at the bar. One obviously a bit worse for wear, t'other giggling like a freak at his friends pissedness.
What I saw next has stuck with me ever since.
Pissed guy proceeds to bite into his glass, removing about a third from 1 side of it into his mouth.
He then chews the glass so as a crunching sound is heard, followed by the flow of blood from each side of his lips.
It didn't stop.
For ages.

I alert Barman who obviously wasn't expecting this sort of activity.

He runs outside to nearby club and grabs a bouncer who does the obligatory,

What I remember most is the image of his friend, laughing, laughing and laughing at this occurance.

Nothing surprises me now. Unfortunately.
( jonbontempi, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:05, 2 replies)

Having paid my way...
through uni in many pooey pubs, imagine my delight watching a proper fight... drunk very large man squares up to head bouncer, punches him in the face - hard... bouncer asks if that's all hes got... man led away...

I'm not know for my following of masculine sports, but it was the sort of punch with connection you imagine seeing in boxing/movies... with zero flinch.

I once saw a rent boy being paid off in the corner of a pub, I don't know what he had done, I decided it rude to ask, but the wadge was about 4 inches thick - I turned to my gay boss and asked him what he wanted me to do.

He told me to mop.

Hopefully that's not a missed euphemism
(feedingtimeatthezoo day 1 of his bikini diet started, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:56, Reply)

About six years ago...
Some bloke complained about my local in the local rag. So the landlord got one of those big plastic banners made for the front of the boozer. It read:

"P**S OFF"

Genius.

Turned up for a lunchtime pint to find the local bobby advising him that "it's a step too far, really..."
(Wobbly Head, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:54, Reply)

Pubs?
Fuckin' hate pubs...
( Hampster Squared has stuff at www.tilla.co.uk, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:46, Reply)

The Legendary Christmas Singalong
Sitting in the Golden Lion on Christmas Eve with my friends, surveying a pub full of teenagers. With a complete disregard for the age of the clientele, I'd hit the jukebox hard with stuff I liked, including Faith No More's "Epic" (it was a damn good jukebox).

My selections reached a crescendo of showing-my-age with the final one, The Monkees "Daydream Believer". I was a little worried that a pub full of pubescent scrotes would scent me out as the purveyor of this sixties pablum and tear me limb from limb.

Instead, the entire pubsworth of people - whose parents were almost certainly spotty teenagers when it last charted - burst into song:

I get HIGH neath the WINGS
of the BLUEBIRD as she SINGS
the SIX O'CLOCK alarm NEVER rings
but SHE RINGS and I RISE
wipe THE SLEEP out of MY EYES
the SHAVING RAZOR's cold, and IT STINGS.

the harmonies of 60 people all shouting

"CHEER UP SLEEPY JEAN"

in ever so slightly different keys sent chills up my spine. Somehow everybody in the entire pub knew every word to a song that was a hit in Decemver 1967. The sense of cameraderie by the time the song finished has not yet been surpassed.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:44, 5 replies)

I broke my toe
I do Tae Kwon Do so Im quite flexible, some other pissed clown challenged me to kick a beam running across the pub, which I did, barefoot! I hobbled home afterwards and had a black toe for a couple of weeks.
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:36, 3 replies)

In my local
A few years ago, the stereotypical 'regular with a chip on his shoulder' was being a complete twat as usual, only this time, he had his dog with him.

Im not totally sure what happened leading up to this event but the dog was sick on the carpet and local man ate some of the spew. This has gone down in local folk law and I always tell this tale whenever he is seen.
(Dr Zoidberg is going for a scuttle, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:35, Reply)

The Nuthouse
It was a tiny little dive in a backwater town in upstate NY, called the Nuthatch. As it was the most run-down dive in town and was usually full of people best left unimagined, it was known locally as the Nuthouse.

One evening two guys decided to pull a prank. They went home and got a hot water bottle and a can of beef stew, filled the bottle with it and tucked it in one guy's shirt so that the neck of the bottle was just below his collar.

They went to the Nuthouse and ordered a couple of beers, and after a few minutes the guy with the bottle moaned loudly, "Oh god gonna be SICK!" and pitched forward while pressing on the bottle and making appropriate gagging noises.

"Hey John! That looks pretty good!" And the second guy produces a spoon and starts eating off the counter.

Even the bartender fled.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:34, 2 replies)

Wetherspoons
I used to drink in there with my friends when we were of dubious age. Money was obviously an issue, hence the drinking in such a dive.

We used to buy neat double vodkas and smuggle in a bottle of coca cola to save on the mulah.

It seemed a bit too rude to smuggle booze into Wetherspoons considering it's so damn cheap.
(The_Greyhound wrote www.luckymcdanger.blog.co.uk on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:33, 1 reply)

Very mobile phone.
Was at the pub with friends, before going to see the spirit at the cinema (worst film ever made btw, avoid it like its Garry Glitter and your a young girl).

Sat talking to my mate, when he pulls his phone out and points it at me like a gun. I swing my arm mimicing kung fu, catch his phone and send it sailing in a glorious arc to the table behind, narrowly missing a man and his lady friend. I start laughing, appologise to the guy. He wasn't ammused. "BE MORE CAREFULL!" he shouts at me, before looking at our group of 8 lads, and realises force would only not be necicary, it would be a bad idea.

I wish he had punched my lights out, then id have got to miss the film.
(Mong goose, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:33, 3 replies)

Growing up, I lived opposite a biker pub frequented by the Angels
Me and mates would often wonder over at weekends and gaze at the selection of bikes lined up outside. Occasionally some grizzled old fellah would notice us, and tell us about his steed.

One night, age 7 or so, I was woken up by lots of sirens and flashing lights outside. I climbed onto my chest of drawers and looked out the window into the street below - I was on the 5th floor, so had a great view - and saw the house next to the pub had gone up in flames. Fire engines and police everywhere, all hell breaking loose.

At the time I just thought this was all exciting, but years later I found out that this house had been the base, of sorts, for the local angels, and had been the target of their local rivals. This in itself made the whole thing more exciting, then I heard about the police search of the burnt out house later on. Searching through the charred out house, they went into the basement and found a human scalp. Charming.

---
Just realised this is a pearoast from the Crime qotw a year ago, but seeing as I've rewritten it, I'll let it lie.

Also: b3ta.com/questions/witness/post121125/ from the same crime qotw. Classy area I used to live in.
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:31, Reply)

auf wiedersehen, German-Irish pubs.
I was in Germany for work purposes. I'd been sent to Saarbrücken with three colleagues and we had been left to our own devices over the weekend before a Monday morning meeting. None of us spoke German. No one in Saarbrücken seemed to speak anything else, which I found reasonable given that we were in Germany. We got by with a hint of mime and a hastily bought dictionary, but in two nights there we had frequented both the Italian and Spanish restaurant because we knew we could order food with some fluency; specifically food that did not involve sausage or cabbage.

Our stay was not without its touristic highlights. It began with the hotel, conveniently situated on the outskirts of town in what appeared to be an industrial estate. The methadone clinic and bail hostel across the road provided some nervous interest, as did the velour leopardskin print and mirrored ceiling in our total of two rooms - rooms which contained only a double bed which perturbed us as, close friends though we were, we weren't that close.

Fortunately, town was a mere 30 minute walk away through the red light district so we bravely ventured forth to see the sights. "There are seventeen interesting sights in Saarbrücken," announced the sign. "One: the church architecture. Two: the church door. Three: the church interior. Four: the square in which the church is located-" We lost the will to live and went for a coffee, which the waitress spilled all over my friend.

On the final night we lucked out. We found an Irish bar. Now there's a home from home. Irish bars do tend to be a-bicycle-on-the-wall-and-a-signpost-to-Galway affairs, but needs must when the divil drives. Besides, I'm Norn Irish. It's my natural habitat.

The Irish bar turned out to be run by a New Zealand bloke but he gave us a warm welcome, as did the other patrons who insisted on buying me whiskey to celebrate my genuine Irishness. The night wore on, the drink flowed, and a tall blond German in leather trousers took a distinct liking to me.

Then it all went sour. Too many whiskeys on top of fine teutonic lager took their toll and I dimly remember a lengthy episode of vomiting into the ladies' toilet. When I returned, weakened, the tall blond German in the leather trousers saw his opportunity and pounced. I did not want to be kissed (badly) by a tall blond German in the leather trousers, nor, I'm sure, did he relish the clinging taste of vomit in my mouth. Seeking my escape I looked hurriedly round the pub. One of my friends was backed into a corner, petrified, being propositioned by a butch lesbian in a lumberjack shirt and a haircut that wouldn't have looked out of place in 1985. Another was loudly proclaiming "but I LIKE Jews" to the neo-Nazi who wanted to show him his gun collection. My third friend somehow managed to divert attention long enough to usher us out the door and into the long walk back to the knocking shop we called our hotel.

I spent the next day throwing up into a clear plastic bag on the train back to Frankfurt. Due to the German efficiency of separating and recycling litter I spent a further half hour at the airport trying to decide into which compartment of the bin I should throw my bag of boke.

I have never been back.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:28, 6 replies)

A wretched hive of scum and villainy in Blackpool
We were on a stag do in Blackpool and were in the alcoholic preamble in a hotel bar at about 5/6 PM. Our party numbered 20 strong and we were sharing the shitty bar with a group of guys of varying ages one of whom was gently oscillating at the bar after evidently drinking his own body weight.

The pissed up fellow with his back to us at the bar was wearing a replica England football strip and in the process of necking 3/4 of his pint when I saw the most unholy thing I have seen in a public bar.

I sat there watching as a small brown stain appeared on his shorts. And the stain grew. And a stench of shit filled the bar.

I started a domino effect of horrified nudging amongst our lot notifying the next man down the line that a chap had shat himself not 10 feet from us.
(SpunkyMcSpunkbubble Diddled your nubbin on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:26, Reply)

Surprised to be on page one:
When I lived in a London I went to visit friends in Notting Hill.
We were in a pub when this 'person of restricted growth' with no legs came in on an oversized skateboard.
He asks my mate to pass an ashtray down from the bar (this was quite a few years ago), and promptly whips his todger out and pisses into it.
Obviously he gets 'thrown' out (more pushed really), but so do we because my mate passed him the ashtray.
Seems its a regular thing he does, and the landlords banned people giving him the ashtrays.
(paof2 Nude might not be rude, but rude could be nude..., Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:19, 1 reply)

Not my local, thank fuck.
www.wakefieldexpress.co.uk/news/Rioting-mob-turn-on-two.4693585.jp
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:09, 1 reply)

A man with no teeth licked my hand and arm
It was horrific
(i should have joined myspace, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:09, 1 reply)

Threatened by Hells Angels
In 1977 for drinking with our opening bowler who just happened to be from Tobago.

Dragged outside by them. Clint (great name) played the hero and promptly pissed off leaving me alone with the Missing Links.

Me? I ran like buggery!

Silver Jubilee, Peterborough.

Length? 22 yards of course!
( The Lone Groover has mal des nuts., Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:06, Reply)

You know those pubs
where there's a bunch of idiots in the corner being loud and lairy? And a girl dressed like a trollop in a tight skirt and low-cut top? Climbing out of a gazebo in a pair of stilettos? And they're spilling more drink than they can get in their mouths? And you know there's a fight waiting to happen, and you can see it kicking off? And there's crying and laughing and yelling and singing and dancing and groping and breaking and shouting? And the ambulance and police are on standby?

Well, I was one of those idiots, and I'm sorry, and can I please now be allowed within the county borders of Wiltshire again please?
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:05, Reply)

Glad it wasn't me.
I once saw a very drunken guy trying his best to impress a girl and chat her up while in a very loud and crowded bar. I was far enough that I couldn't hear what was being said, but he was definitely doing his best.

He stopped talking and got a strange expression on his face. I think the girl asked, "What's wrong?" Moments later she got her answer- full in the face. He even splattered onlookers.

Somehow I doubt he got laid again for a very long time.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:03, 2 replies)

5th
Will have story tomorrow.
( girlinthehole, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 21:00, Reply)

4th!
Fuck it. I shouldn't have bothered. I've not been out in my home town for 2 years or so. It's a shithole.
The usual fights. Vomiting. Crap dancing. Drug dealing. Etc.

Hey ACTUALLY! I used to work in a very rough pub called the "Saltoun". One morning a regular walks in and asks if I have the keys to the rooms upstairs. I didn't.
Turns out 2 English lads staying in the hotel bit had mugged his nephew the night before (The lad was a bit of a druggie and was carrying about £150 on him) outside the bar. This was a BIG mistake. Said regular was from a very bad part of Glasgow and had a MASSIVE scar on his face (started on his forehead down over his eye to his chin) from when he was in a knife fight. He was also a grade A psycho.
Realising he couldn't just burst into their room he took a screwdriver from behind the bar (I had no part in that) and waited by the window. When the 2 lads came out he chased them down the street. He didn't catch them but they had left their keys in the car door. He went in and took the stereo. A mobile phone and then flattened the tires.
I finished my shift before they came back for the car but I heard later it took them 3 hours to show up and when they did they had the young lads cash with a bit extra on top. They were meant to stay over another night but just got the car tires pumped up and fucked off.

Don't blame them.

I used to open the bar at 7am and there were always the same 3 guys waiting outside for it to open come rain or shine. One of them always ordered the same thing. A pint and a double rum. He would be royally pissed by 11. Go home for a kip and come back at 5.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:57, Reply)

Well
I've just got back from mine and it was as shit as ever. Will post slightly better rubbish tomorrow, only got mobile internet at minute so it's a bitch to type!
(Kip, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:57, Reply)

First!
Muahaha

Edit: FUCKSOCKS!
( greedyostrich Cheese is evil! Cheddar is VOODOO!, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:57, Reply)

pubs?
Is standing outside a pub waiting for it to open in the morning as sad as being the first poster on a new qotw?

is it worse when its about 6.30 am and the rugby world cup final is on and there are about 30 of you?

nothing like falling out of a pub about midday being rather drunk and a bit emotional* after seeing Jason Leonard presented with his winners medal.

*practically weeping
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:57, 2 replies)