Rambo
Until it closed recently, I spent more years than I care to remember in a rock pub in Birmingham which, for the sake of this tale, we shall call 'Costermongers'. Now Costers had a resident cast of strange and unique individuals, but for my money, the king of them all was Rambo.

Although I talked to him regularly for twenty years, I never knew his real name. This was because, no matter what time of day you rolled into the pub, Rambo would be either almost pissed, pissed, completely hatstand or, if you caught him early enough, seriously hung-over.

Now Rambo wasn't your typical rocker. Ok, he wore jeans and boots so typical of us as a breed, but no matter whether it was June or December, Rambo only ever wore a leather waistcoat as his sole upper garment. This was to show off his tattoos. Not for him the tribal patterns or skulls and flames, no, Rambo had black panthers.

The story was that the love of Rambo's life had been cruelly done away years ago with by a renegade motorcycle gang; the 'Black Panthers' and Rambo had chased them down one by one and murdered them in revenge. Every time he offed another bad guy, on went another tattoo. I once asked him how come I'd never heard of them. I mean, Hell's Angels, yes. Cycle Tramps, check, but Black Panthers? Nothing doing. This, according to Rambo, was because 'they were all dead' (obviously).

Everyone in the pub knew this tale, as Rambo would retell it regularly. Over the years, the number of panther tattoos increased too, as more were tracked down and dispatched. I once asked how come he wasn't inside forever for killing all these bad boys over a twenty year period, but all I got back was the mysterious line "I've got contacts".

All this horseshit was delivered in an amiable and friendly way though, and everyone in the pub liked Rambo. Inexplicably, he was a hit with the ladies, too, despite him being the wrong side of fifty, toothless, bald, five foot seven and about nine stone dripping wet.

In a nutshell, Rambo was a one-off; a total character. When Costers shut down, Rambo, for some reason, never made the five minute walk to Scruffy Murphy's (Brum's other rock pub) like the rest of us, he simply disappeared. God help me, but I miss the old goat...
(Billy The Fish wants to gargle with Lucy Pinder's bath water, Fri 14 Jan 2011, 13:24, 1 reply)

I'm Rambo and so is my wife.

( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 14 Jan 2011, 14:28, closed)