Middlesbrough.
I was a white van man. Worse, I was a white van man’s assistant. We trawled the charity shops of the north east buying up their ‘discontinued’ stock to sell on at a profit to people with no money or taste.
It was a bleak existence of dual carriageways, sandwiches, and illegal parking. I was 19 years old. I thought I’d flushed all my existential angst away with the passing of my 15th birthday, but had never reckoned for the experience of standing in a yellow office at a weigh bridge on a deserted industrial estate in Blyth, while two fully grown men snicker “Look at the tits on that” and the woman behind the desk tries not to cry.

It was a Friday, around 11am. I'd spent the last hour carrying half a ton of awful coats into the alleyway at the back of the People's Dispensary For Sick Animals. Me and the driver had had enough.
“Fuck it,” he said, checking his watch. “We’re off to a pub I know. That’ll kill a few hours. If we hurry we’ll make the lunchtime special.”
I nodded and smiled, not having a clue what he was on about.
Miles later, we approached Middlesborough. I fucking hate that place for good and obvious reasons. Our route took us past the centre and out into the industrial wastelands of this shithole. We ended up entering some sort of decaying retail park, all single storey buildings and tyre fitters. And inexplicably, a pub.
We walked in. It was packed with men only and they all seemed full of anticipation. We ordered two pints of lager and sat down, and almost immediately the bell rang. Everyone cheered. Some music came on, the back door opened, and the only woman on the premises walked through.

She was a vision. Black wig, fake tits, a carefully looked-after backside. I’d put her around 50, judging from the creases she’d tried to hide with make-up. The place erupted. She sashayed around the room, dropping items of clothing and pouting at old men while Tom Jones bellowed in the background.
She marched towards me. I mumbled a greeting and tried not to glance at her sore-looking bald vagina. She took my pint from my hand, rammed a distended nipple into it, and swilled loads of warm Carling all over her right tit. Everyone cheered again. Then she shook the sopping breast in my face.
I was 19. I hated my life. I liked beer. I misread the situation and thought I was being invited to suck cheap booze off an ageing strippers silicon bosom. I wondered what my parents would think. I looked at the nipple. It was very dark. I put it in my mouth.
There was a collective intake of breath, and she leapt backwards. Men with large hands spat disapproving comments my way. She looked very let down. I wanted to apologise but just creased my eyebrows together instead and went hot. My driver muttered “You fucking idiot” and we left. He treated me like a rapist for the rest of the day.
It tasted like my balls smell.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 12:58, 12 replies)

A pub called "The Fiddle"
It was a vile inn.
( MisterPunch did it that way on, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 16:57, 8 replies)

Let's see what the local is like...
After a hard day helping a friend move house, we decided to see what his new local was like. This was a pleasingly short distance from his house, so he was hoping for great things. From the outside all looked fine, but inside...

The decor had apparently been based on a doctor's waiting room that the owner had seen sometime around 1955. Cracked reddish lino covered the floor, and yellow melamine-topped tables had racks underneath to hold piles of magazines which appeared to date from the late Cretaceous era. The lighting was eye-searingly bright fluorescent tubes, that type with the flicker which was just below perception but would give even the kind of chap who likes to stick his head into the bass bins at a thrash metal gig a migraine within three minutes.

In front of the bar was a dog of startling ugliness, slumped in an unnatural position and leaking bodily fluids. We were just about to inform the barmaid that somebody seemed to have thrown a dead dog into the pub, when it suddenly leapt up and began to suck its own cock with noisy gusto.

The walls were decorated by a large number of paintings, every one of which was a portrait of the dog, and all executed by an artist of such breathtaking talentlessness that they actually managed to make the dog uglier, which I would have sworn was impossible.

There were only two other customers in the place, despite it being Friday evening. One was an actual example of that mythical pub regular, the old boy in a flat cap, nursing a half of mild and with a jack russel under his table. He seemed to be entirely disconnected with reality, in a personal world of his own, which was probably a good thing.

The second customer was sitting at the bar, in a strange green suit, with eyes that told a story - a story which involved putting "drink" on the form, when asked by the careers teacher what he wanted to do when he grew up. He was telling everybody who cared to listen, and us, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, that "This was a happy pub. It's a happy pub here, a happy pub. It's happy here, isn't it? Yes, a happy pub. A happy pub here."

We decided not to stay. As we turned around, I noticed that there was a strange wear pattern in the lino by the door, as if innumerable feet had spun 180 degrees on this very spot...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 11:50, 2 replies)

Right, I'm back from the pub.
Some of you have probably heard horror stories about the grimness of Welsh pubs.
Some of you might even have heard about my hometown, the decaying Valleys shithole that is Aberdare.
Now, get yourselves a drink or a few or a LOT of drinks and let me regale you with tales of the legend that was The Carpenters Arms.
First, a bit of history. Like most Valleys shitholes Aberdare was a coalmining and ironworking town. That meant that in the heady days of the Industrial Revolution it was a boomtown. Lots of miners and ironworkers meant lots of pubs. Like lots of other boomtowns of it's day it also meant overcrowding, poor sanitation, and, unlike lots of boomtowns, even during the industrial revolution, it eventually led to a cholera epidemic that got so bad that questions were raised in parliament. Questions that led to a report that, in passing, described The Carpenters as a 'den of vice, iniquity, opium and stews'
By the mid 1980's not too much had changed. It was the druggies, metalheads, punks, greebos, goths, skins, mentals, outsiders and generally not polite peoples' pub of choice. It had: A good jukebox, albeit one you had to kick occasionally to stop certain 7"s from skipping. Cheap beer. A succession of VERY tolerant landlords and landladies. Cheap beer. A pooltable. Cheap beer. Live music on a fairly regular basis. Cheap beer and even cheaper women. LOTS of fights though. Oh and did I mention the CHEAP BEER?
It was the pub you went to if you wanted to score, the pub you went to if you wanted something shoplifted on demand, the pub you went to if you didn't 'fit in' in most of the other pubs in Aberdare, which were populated by 'normal' people ie proto-chavs.
Now, bear in mind that in the mid to late 1980's, Aberdare bore the sobriquet of 'The Las Vegas Of The Valleys'. It had more pubs and clubs per head of population than That London. Every Friday and Saturday there used to be coachloads of people coming into the town from Merthyr, Maerdy, Ponty, Neath and all the other nearby valleys, even some from Swansea and Cardiff. ALL looking for a good night out, a good fight, a good fuck, or any combination of the three.
Hardly ANY of those good folks EVER came into The Carps. Such was it's reputation. Those brave (or foolhardy) few that did either fucked off sharpish or fit right in and came back week after week.
Crass played their last EVER gig there (EDIT: NO THEY FUCKING DIDN'T YOU MORRON, IT WAS THE COLLISEUM! Fuck, I was there, and all these years I've ALWAYS remembered that gig as being in the Carpenters. :/) . Phil Campbell (now out of Motorhead, then in Persian Risk) was a sort of regular, sometimes playing acoustic sets if a booked band hadn't turned up or had been scared off (EDIT: maybe I'm wrong about this too. hell, maybe I never even went in The Carpenters. Maybe The Carps never even fucking EXISTED.)
There was the night one of the dealers, knowing he was going to be searched as soon as he left, handed his entire stash and his night's takings to my mate's girlfriend, safe in the knowledge she could be relied on to give him most of it back (EDIT: Perhaps this happened somewhere else too.)
The xmas eve when a tiny little 4 foot nothing girl tipped the pool table over and proceeded to beat the living shit out of her boyfriend because he'd put John FUCKING Lennon on on the jukebox. (Now, I despise that hippie cunt, but still...) (Edit: AND this, although it does ring bells).
The night when an EXTREMELY cheesy chat-up line got me a dose of crabs. (Edit: I'm fairly sure that this DID happen there)
The many, many nights when dodgy cigs were handed round freely but surreptitiously at the back and EVERYONE just got mellow and NOBODY fought (EDIT: I'm not entirely sure about the last bit of this now).
The night my mate Ruddles met his ONE TRUE LOVE. (He was a shy boy, and after much giggling with her mates she approached him with the line 'You do realise you're God's gift to women, right?' (EDIT: This really DID happen there though).
The night my mate SOG was led in on a leash by his then Grrlfiend mentally scarring some poor morons (EDIT: so did this).
Of course, it couldn't last. Even Adam and Eve got barred from Eden eventually.
The final landlord, Stew, was a decent enough bloke, but he couldn't exercise ANY sort of control. The dealers were pretty-much self regulating, but some of the clientele were totally self-destructing. There were joints being openly rolled on the bar, smack being injected in the Ladies' (The smackies couldn't see in the Gents' because one of them had broken both the lights.) The roof was leaking, the pool table effectively destroyed, at least three of the balls had been stolen, and half the cues didn't have tips. But there was still the Jukebox
Now, at the time my mate Wally was going out with the daughter of one of the higher ranking coppers in the town, and we heard, unofficially, that while The Carps had always been tolerated in the past because 'That way we know where all the real troublemakers are at any given time' it wouldn't be allowed much longer. I mean, not only was Stew allowing all this, he was even selling bottles of poppers alongside the shots (legal, but still, poppers being sold at the bar?).
Come the fateful night, as usual it's gone one in the morning, and there's a lock-in. I'm playing Outrun. Badly. When about a MILLION coppers bust in. Fair do's, as far as I remember they didn't arrest anyone, they let me and my mates go at any rate, Stew got a caution for the lock-in and that was pretty much that. Or so we thought.
About a fortnight later I was in town one afternoon when I bumped into my mate Jaffers. 'Fancy a pint?' I asked.
'Yup. He replied.
And down the street towards the Carps we headed, until we saw no fewer than 3 riot vans pull up outside it and a BAZILLION, fully riot-geared up coppers pour out of the vans and into the pub.
'Soooooo,' I said 'Cambrian then?'
'Aye.' said Jaffers.
The Carps was eventually bought up by a PubCo, and turned into a 'Vodka bar' the cunts renamed it Rasputin's. Apparently you can book the place for a night if you'd want to. Got no idea what it's like though, never been in there since.
*Raises a Spicy and Sunny D in memory of The Carpenters Arms. I miss you. STILL*

tl:dr? SUMMARY: GREAT DODGY PUB WAS GREAT. AND DODGY.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Sat 8 Feb 2014, 3:17, 6 replies)

Clearly a great place to pull...
One time, me and my brother wandered into a pretty rough place somewhere in Hoxton, can't remember exactly where or what it was called. You know the sort of place, dirty floor, dirty bar, everyone just trying to get pissed as fast as possible etc. Like Wetherspoons but even mankier.

So, most pubs have a condom dispenser in the gents loos just on the off chance that you get lucky that evening and need protection at short notice. Not this establishment, oh no. Instead of dispensing condoms, the machines in the gents loos dispensed...

...pornographic DVDs. Seriously. I have never since been anywhere where the chances of pulling (or general quality of clientele to be pulled, if you will) was so low that you were better off just heading home for a wank. Pure class, right there.
(An Inflatable Bearded Whumpus, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 14:45, 2 replies)

Due to my penchant for the odd pint I've witnessed, and been in, quite a few bar room brawls. But my favourite happened in Redcar, North East England.

Redcar is rough but, the place I was based, Eston, is even rougher. It's the sort of area where anyone with more than one ear is a cissy.

Anyways. I was staying directly across the road from where I worked in. It was a pub. A *really* rough pub and the downstairs bar was populated with some of the finest knuckle-draggers you've ever seen.

But I can fit into almost any environment and I was soon a regular and could be found propping up the bar after work. I got to know a lot of the local meatheads and they soon found out I was a computer consultant and they soon found out I'd fix their systems for beer. So it soon became a regular fixture, me at one of the tables happily de-porning systems ( me missus will kill me...), removing virii and spyware and installing cracked software for them.

So all was well with the world. Then, one night , there was a pool match with another pub and it kicked off. A massive bar-room brawl with cues being used as clubs, chairs and tables flying across the room (often accompanied by flying teeth) and fists, boots and heads being used with abandon.

The bar staff just scuttled to the safety of the lounge bar and soon I was the only spectator - literally, everyone in the bar was involved in the fight. Of course this couldn't last for long and a meathead, having dispatched his opponent, by throwing him through the toilet doors, came looking for his next victim. Me.

He saw me standing alone at the bar and started to run across the room towards me. I saw him and did my famed "deer in the headlights" impression and prepared to defend myself when a mighty roar came across the room.

"DON'T TOUCH THE GEEK!!!!"

It was the head hardman. The hardman's hardman and I'd fixed his machine for him several times and he didn't want anyone interfering in his free computer support.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 19:35, 40 replies)

Back in the mists of time (insert wavy lines).... I went to work in Glasgow........
I was working on a warship, overhauling/upgrading the engine control systems. The work itself was piss-easy, the people I was working with were generally OK with a hint of psychopath, and as I was in digs outside Glasgow my evenings were somewhat staid. After a few days I asked one of the least mental of the welders where I could find the kind of pub 'You know, like Billy Connolly describes'. He very kindly offered to take me to the roughest pub he knew - that very evening!
I turned up by taxi outside a beaten-up, half boarded-up semi derelict shithole where he was waiting for me. Before we went in he said (in a Scots accent that I can't adequately write) 'OK come in but DON'T say anything. We went in
Fuck me it was a vision of hell. The bar was chainlinked off from the room, with two 'hatches' for serving and paying, there were no seats and the tables were basic wooden circles atop what appeared to be scaffold poles concreted in to the floor.
I got into the company of his mates, all of whom seemed quite friendly - compared to the rest of the denizens who seemed to spent their time either singing, vomiting or punching each other - sometimes all at the same time. After a few pints I realised I hadn't bought a round so I said 'My shout'.

Oh fuck.

I'd spoken.

In an English accent.

Bearing in mind that even though I was young/foolish/believed myself to be immortal this still was a bowel loosening moment.
One of the welder's mates pushed his (heavily tattooed) face into mine and garbled something along the lines of "seeyoojimmehwharey'fee". I had no idea what he'd said but my welder friend translated it as 'He's asking where you're from'.
I thought fuck it, I can only die once so I replied 'Coventry' - fully expecting to be nutted/booted/punched/stamped into a semi liquid stain on the floor - when tattoo face beamed at me!
'Coventry! Ah heard it's a bit rough doon thare', shook my hand and patted me on the back, exclaiming to the rest of the pub 'This cunt's English - leave him alone'
I got back to my digs some time later and vowed NEVER to go out in Glasgow again.

TL;DR - I went out in Glasgow in the late 70's and didn't get punched
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 10:27, 9 replies)

My other half's story
When she first moved to London, and before I'd met her, my other half lived in Stepney with her alcoholic (now ex-) husband. Every Friday she'd have to trawl round the local pubs trying to find which one he'd settled into for the weekend. Not being an East End fishwife, she didn't have the nous to stride into a pub and shriek "Is that drunken bum Jeff in here?" so instead she would just guiltily creep in, have a quick recce round the darkest corners and then leave. Eventually she discovered that bar staff could be quite helpful if she actually approached the bar, ordered a drink and asked after his whereabouts. Finally she realised that there wasn't much point searching him out and would end up having a few drinks in one particular pub and chatting with the locals.
One such Friday night, just before last orders, an old lady came round with a bucket. Seeing that the locals were enthusiastically digging deep into their own pockets she chucked a few quid in, not quite sure what charity she'd just donated to but not much bothered either. Then a lock-in ensued. The front door was locked, the blinds and lights were lowered. The old lady from before went up to the bar, plonked down a battered old tape player and hit 'Play'. The tape was so stretched and worn with age that the music playing was almost unrecognisable. People started clapping and cheering.
The old lady then climbed up onto a table and, shuffling to the warped sounds of David Rose and his Orchestra, started removing her clothes, revealing herself to be even more stretched and worn than the tape. And because she'd given the single largest donation of the night, the stripper most generously threw her support panties to my other half.
TL;DR My future wife inadvertently scored a pair of stripper's knickers.
( wakeupandsmellthebacon, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 15:27, Reply)

Gay bar in Soho, some poor bastard had been tied naked to a lamppost just outside while he was passed out.
There was a long queue of homosexuals waiting to take turns in "sausaging" him.
( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 12:51, 8 replies)

Sign of the times
On an estate on the outskirts of Brighton is a fairly crap pub called The Traveller's Rest. At one time it famously sported a sign on the door saying "No Travellers".
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 13:22, Reply)

The Royal Exchange in Stourbridge, 1980s.
Having emerged from the 70s with its reputation as a diehard Biker's pub - stories such as the Landlord pursuing someone outside for damaging the jukebox, apprehending him as the guy climbed on his chopper, who then proceded to dissuade him with a sawn-off an inch from his face-

the late 80s it emerged as one of the best venues for listening to rock music (place a bit small to host an actual band) and good beer and good company. You wouldn't be ejected if you didn't have a biker jacket or a heavy metal t-shirt but you might feel a little outnumbered. Young lads and lasses mixed freely with unreformed crusty greebos from the previous decades. The odd whiff of dope, the occasional tattooed face but no problems. Every Friday night, busy. Every Saturday night, packed. Also, I met Brian Tatler there, the Diamondhead guitarist whose riff for 'Am I Evil' is credited with influencing the architects of thrash metal. And yet such a humble man to talk to :-)

Then the landlord changed and the new guy decided that he wanted to impose his idea of a theme on the place and all of a sudden it changed character, called 'The Meeting Place'. Apparently he was a buddhist hippy vegan who had travelled the world in search of spiritual enlightenment and the decor soon had 'inspirational quotes' painted on walls, and the black timbers and purple velvet seating became bean-bags and retro-chic distressed sofas and murals of Caribbean desert island sunsets. The music they played was very inoffensive middle of the road pop and AOR. The lunchtime menu featured a lot more things with the word 'bean' in it.

Slowly the hard rock fraternity left after they realised it was staying like this and went to alternate pubs around the area with more Metal Credibility. But occasionally I'd pop my head in to see if any of the old crew came back in to meet up and saw the hardcore crusty greebos refusing to be ousted, so sat in their corner still sporting Hawkwind t-shirts, grey beards (well maybe not the women) and aged, cracked shiny-through-wear biker leathers, they repulsed the new clientele that the landlord was trying to attract. A steady stream of art college students buying a half of lager (and making it last 3 hours) kept the place afloat for a while but it could not sustain itself. The lunchtime trade of pensioners shopping who used to get a cottage pie and chips could not refill the coffers as it had once done because they no longer opened during the day. So slowly and inevitably it dies on its arse.

After that landlord gave up on the place the next guy in (I assume he was backed by a chain or a group of investors) tried to change the Exchange's character again to attract a new, dynamic young happening smart crowd, so the architect designed a new steel-and-glass interior (ostensibly to reflect the industrial heritage of the area, in both glass and steel which was once produced locally) and renamed it The Glasshouse.

As a trick and a talking point the downstairs ceiling which was also the upstairs floor was made of hardened inch-thick glass sheets. A technological marvel. A styling conversation point. Because glass, as we know, is transparent. Which meant anyone downstairs could look up and see straight up the skirts of any girls upstairs.

That didn't last long. It's now boarded up.

Moral of the story -if the pub's not broken, don't try and fix it.
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Sun 9 Feb 2014, 19:22, 1 reply)

Beer and wanking
20 years ago I was a young spirit, scraping across Americas underbelly, looking under stones for whatever ghastly sordid fabulousness I could find.
Was in The Hole In The Wall in San Francisco. The bar was nicely dingy, with a tv suspended from the ceiling at a jaunty angle.
On the tv were loads of clips from The Simpsons, stupid tv adverts, and assorted visual randomness, flicking back and forward merrily.
Then, every couple of minutes, there would be a 5 second click of a hairy, overweight man wanking merrily away. Then back to The Simpsons for a few more minutes, then more hairy man wanking.
The hairy man bore more than a passing resemblance to the barman.
So, man gets paid to serve us beer, and makes us watch him wank.
Nice pub otherwise.
( normix, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 10:50, Reply)

When I venture out for an afternoon / evening of happy drinking in a new pub, it's not the toilet floor awash with piss and chunder that really fazes me, nor the random outbreaks of violence between steroid bloated Neanderthals, and the enticing offer of a session of keenly priced oral gratification from a grey-skinned scabby junkie whore seems almost romantic, when compared to the absolute insult of being served beer in a plastic cup.
( Ken Oath, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 12:59, 4 replies)

Bloke at the table next to me...
...is the loudest and most obnoxious bastard I have ever witnessed. He is on a mobile repeatedly calling someone a 'cunt' and telling them in no uncertain terms that he is going to 'fucking do them'. As his girlfriend gets up to go to the toilet, under the table he pisses in her handbag and goads his cronies to laugh with him.
As we are finishing our pints with an aim to a quick exit he gets out of his seat, walks over to the bar, punches a random punter in the back of the head and throws them towards the door.
Hurriedly, we start to leave. As I glance back to see he is not following with a machete I notice he is now behind the counter "Not staying for another one, lads?"
Which says a lot about Whitbread's recruitment policy in Gloucestershire in the early 90s.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 11:56, Reply)

The Bull and Badger in Chipping Norton
Once, they completely ran out of pistachios and we had to have stuffed olives instead...

Also, one evening a riot nearly broke out when they served lime rather than lemon in the G&Ts
(LetsGetDownToIt, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 16:14, 12 replies)

Yates wine lodge in <insert name of any town with a Yates wine lodge here>

( Muns, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 15:23, 7 replies)

Three pubs down Lewes Road in Brighton
used to be renowned drug dens, specialising in MDMA in tablet form.
They were well rough, so I never went down that road.
I always managed to dodge E boozers.
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Thu 13 Feb 2014, 9:45, 2 replies)

Luxury!
I remember when I were a lad, going down t'local meant letting the landlord take a shite into your mouth and giving him a crank o' yer old feller to make your balls spin round, and if you came up with two brown stars to match your arsehole, THEN you got a pint of stingo.

Wednesday lunchtime it were open mic, and anyone with the lungs on him to make himself heard when mashed between Five Fingers Flo's funbags got a free bet on the first afternoon race down at Whippet Real Good.

If you'd started talking to me about gastropubs back then, I would have said I hoped you were on antibiotics.

Course, it's changed a lot since then, has Islington.
( .Yeti. El amor en los tiempos del cólera, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 13:16, 4 replies)

So I used to go to this place where
you used to have to punch the barman to get his attention. Punch him in the face.

If you were lucky, he'd then take a shit in a pint glass, and you'd have to eat it, and pay, and after that you were considered "a local".

Everyone there was on drugs, and the police used to drink there, but they'd raid it as well.

At exactly 9-47pm each evening, there would be a MASSIVE fight, and someone would die.

But the jukebox was good, so I loved the place.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 15:20, 3 replies)

My local pub is called The Gay Black Irish Gypsy...
...it has a sign outside which is very amusing because of it's discriminatory nature.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 18:02, 2 replies)

I'm not looking at your bird...
The Razz, Liverpool. Student night on a Tuesday. Me and about 8 mates have been in the Scream pub watching the football and proceed to the Razz for much cheap beer and possible pulling.

Get in, and go to the bar. Standing, waiting to catch the eye of the bar maid, I feel my shirt sleeve being pulled. I pull my arm closer but the pulling continues, so I turn around to ask what is wrong..

You know that moment when in the second of bravado, you say something without looking first...

I turn and say something like "what the fuck do you want?" and I am looking on my eye-line at a pair of pec's that could serve a roast boar on each of them. He must be 6 foot 6.

"Have you been looking at my girls tits?" The living wardrobe asks. I have not even seen a girlfriend.
"No" I reply.
"Would you like to? Only £2 a look. A £10 for a blow job!"
"No thanks" I squeak.
"Why the fuck would you not want to look?...." comes the next more intimidating line...

I have never walked from a pub with greater haste..
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 23:59, 8 replies)

Some dodgy bars what I saw

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 15:03, 2 replies)

I'd avoid any pub that allowed stand-up like this
Awooga. What a rush.

Right. Yeah, I got my notes here just in case I completely forget what I'm fucking saying. So, how are we all? Are we all good? Excellent, excellent.

Right, like, I was sort of rehearsing earlier. It is an absolute fucking pleasure to be here in despite the fact that my heart is currently going nineteen to a dozen and I feel like I'm about to take my driving test. Which I failed three times in a row. However, I- the last time I maintain it wasn't my fault.

I like to maintain- thanks there- I like to maintain- God, that's fucking distracting.

I like to maintain that it wasn't actually my fault. It was actually the fact that the OAP stepped out in front of me. And the fact that driving examiner was actually y-

Are you fucking filming? You bastard. Oh for God's sakes. Anyway, urm.

I like to maintain that it wasn't my fault. It was in fact the fault of the driving examiner in that she didn't get there with the dual controls quick enough. That, and she was a frustrated Daily Mail reading bitch queen man-hating whore from hell. But, so it goes so.

So, I asked, I asked how you-we all were earlier. And, you know, you all obviously responded in the positive. But the answer that you never expect- which admittedly, I've never got- but you live in hope and you don't turn round and say "Actually Jim, I've just been bumraped by a tramp". Yes, I know that's gross-out humour but, any porn in a storm, right. And, especially tramps.

But anyway, and, uh, you know, If you're just asking someone how they are you don't expect their fucking life story. And if you get it, my resp-, my reaction is to go alright I'm going now bye bye.

Anyway

Let's put that back up straight.

Anyway.

So.

With sort of like with seeming in mind, urm, it is obviously festival season. Anyone going to any rock festivals soon? Leedsfest? Good luck.

Right.

Because, because, I'm not sure if this is true or not, but I had heard a story about a guy who sort of like, he's shall we say just a little bit different. He dresses up in a dry suit, this is from what I've heard, I don't know if it's true or not, dresses up in a dry suit with like full mask and snorkel and everything else. And goes and lurks in the long drops. And likes to play a little game with people. Yeah, you've heard this before haven't you. Oh well, so it goes. And, urm, you know he, he likes to, uh, like I say, play a little game. Don't spoil the punchline for me, please. Otherwise I'll be singling you out for a complaint later on. And, like I say, likes to lurk and he lurks in the long drops. Until you at the most vulnerable, your trousers around your ankles already feeling a little bit bleurrgh because of all of the various substances alcohol and the fact that, you know, your dung handles are you know pretty much brushing your shoes. And just at that moment apparently he likes to pop up and just go POP UP PIRATE you know like that.I'm gonna say if you've not had a shit before you certainly will after that.

That's just some of the silliness that we see on a daily basis. I mean, for example, once I was waiting at a train station taking part in the commonly known activity as waiting for trains. As you do. And I was there obviously watching the situation. There was my favourite member of the human species just for taking the piss out of: The Chav. He was standing there doing what chavs do - being fucking annoying cunt. But anyway. He was standing there with his can of Special Brew, cigarette, and mobile phone playing what can only be described as fucking noise.

Oi, Wh-where you going?

Alright.

Anyway, back to the story, so he said, doing what he's doing, and there's this little eight year old running around doing what eight year olds do - going, sort of going like "ooh, well, happy days, happy days", you know, I'm not going to run around and run up all my energy so that I won't be an annoying little gimp whatever. And of course his parents were there, I mean, who would leave an eight year old child on there own with a train station? But, come off it. Sorry. And urrrm, yes, so he they're all in their accepted roles. I'm there being the observer thinking "my God, you're being so annoying", and you know, the chav is just going murmrmrmumrmr ntz ntz ntz coming out the mobile playing. And this you know the eight year old is running around playing gets fixed up a gear in the headlights with this chav and this chav just turns round and says "what you looking at?", as chavs apparently like to do when they're sort of like glanced at for half a microsecond by anyone. And this little kid, quick as ever, hold on two seconds, quick as a flash turns around like that and says "I don't know, but it appears to be trying to communicate with me". And I swear to God I've never seen anyone go from angry to confused at the flip of a switch. And the parents just grabbed this kid - Woah! - You know, and, you know, just got out of the situation I'm just sat there silently pissing myself with laughter. Not at the moment, thank God. And, urm, I was there, you know, and you never stood a chance under the towering intellect of an eight year old.

Anyway, right, but, still good chavs.

Sometimes I like to take a look at my friend, thank you very much Robert Chorlton, and for driving, you know, so I don't have to deal with the bane of Britain's model train system or the wonders of some might say. You know, the inevitable delays, leaves on the line, the platitudes that come out of the speakers, like: "We are sorry to announce the train has been delayed, there is a sheep on the line currently being buggered by a Welshman". For all you Welsh people out there, it's kind of my trait to take the piss out of them. For I am British after all.

So we're driving around and we see this chav on a bike - will you please pay attention - so we're driving along and - behave - there we are. "I wanna run that chav over, I wanna run that chav over". I'm just there thinking "why would you do that? I don't want that on my conscience. It could be my bike".

Okay, I was thinking that could have gone a lot better than it did. But never mind, so yeah. But anyway, on a final note, I'm just gonna end with this sort of like little this sort of review of life. We all see some pretty stupid fucking things, not at least, anyone from Wakefield here by the way? Apart from myself. Excellent right. I'm guessing some of you here heard about that Romanian who decided to rape someone in Clerkgate Station so he could go to prison and learn English. What the fuck is he going to learn? "Somebody pass the soap"?

Thank you very much you people have been beautiful goodnight.
( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 11:20, 3 replies)

(Eukanuba, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 20:26, 7 replies)

Is this yours?
Up until fairly recently, the only pubs round my way were rougher than sandpaper g-strings, so I avoided them like Russians avoid soft drinks.

One fateful evening, however, my usual alternative boozer was shut, so a mate and I decide to brave what looked to be the least bad of the local dives, which we chose on the basis that it was the only one not full of people actively having a fight. It even had a (square of) carpet.

Securing our drinks and disappearing to a nook round the back, our conversation was soon interrupted by the repeated intoning of 'Is this yours?'. We try to carry on talking, but it gets louder as the interrogator gets closer.

I lean out of the nook to see what's going on. The interrogator, a trampish-looking mentalist with massive beard and requisite string belt, is stood right in front of me.

He holds an entire cow's leg just inches from my face.

'Is this yours?'

It wasn't mine.
(SimianKid internet faffer, Fri 7 Feb 2014, 16:52, Reply)

Not a pub
but the bar at Wolves Civic back in the early seventies. I was at a Hawkwind concert and making my way from the bar with a pint in my hand. A HUGE Hells Angel with long mangey beard and full putrifying colours approached me from the opposite direction and stopped in front of me. "Give us a swig" he said reaching for my pint. His negotiating skills were persuasive so I offered him my glass. He took two slobbery swigs and handed it back. "Ta mate" he said and sauntered off. Blimey. That was close - I had what was left of my pint back and got to walk away. Two days later I collapsed at work with meningitis
( CharlesDexterWard no rush eh, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 16:56, 11 replies)

Once, in the Jolly Sailor on Portland,
a Russian sailor, who was jolly alright, tried to steal my dog.

I nearly ended up with 2 half dogs as he'd taken a good hold of the poor mutt and I was trying to wrestle him from this pissed up man-mountain's not inconsiderable grip. Obviously this fucking vodka sponge had taken a liking to my dawg and was resolved to take him home to the motherland on his ship.
It all ended reasonably amicably as I shook him warmly by the throat and his shipmates punched him repeatedly in the ear until he let go.
Later the captain told me that he did this in nearly every port and sometimes got the dog on board before being discovered.

The dog ate a discarded kebab on the way home and threw up shortly afterwards.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 13:13, 9 replies)

My local has 44,000 litres of beer on site at any one time but it tastes like stale tears, I think it might be gone off crying.

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 11:53, Reply)

The Mighty Fine.
Down in sunny Pompey it really was not the place to meet, or take a lady friend.

Though not really rough it contained to the oddest collection of people a naval port has ever thrown up.

A gay midget who dressed completely in leather;

An ex Chief Stoker who decided he was a transsexual after doing his 22 and collecting typical 'Jack' tats. In short, a pub it was almost impossible to get thrown out of.

Yet my ex wife managed to get barred for life.

She went on her first 'Run Ashore' (she was a baby Wren), and wandered in with her mates and for some reason they all had helium filled balloons.

They thought it'd be a great laugh to let them go then light the string.

Being just post Falklands they were somewhat surprised when, as the balloons burst, most of the matelots in there dived under the closest table.
(Docofair, Wed 12 Feb 2014, 2:32, 20 replies)

A local pub for local people..
Ah, uncomfortable pints, don't ya love em? I used to live in Royston Vasey, many years ago. The local pub had free pool and a free juke box on Tuesdays, which says something. The juke box hadn't been updated since the early nineties, so had some early dance classics on there, great for a spot of nostalgia, The Grid's Swamp Thing, Urban cookie collective, etc, etc.

So.. one Tuesday, it started well. Nothing playing, so, up to the juke box, whack on some tracks..then

"You're not putting on any more of that *black* music" are you?"

Erm...nope.. but I fucking am now... Racks mental mind map for all bands with black members.. find a few.. then... on to pool.

This weasel was playing his girlf at pool, winner stays on, she won, I played her next..

Got to a couple of shots from the black.. potential for a snooker, so..

"You going to snooker a woman? Then you're a fucking wanker!"

Hmm. Fluffed that shot.. Stood my ground and won, played him next.. he got progressively pissed, sat down, looking at me daggers, and lit a ciggie.

Then he did that thing, I'd heard of, but never seen..

The cigarette stuck to his lip, and when he came to pull it out of his mouth, all that happened was that his fingers moved along the body of the cig to the glowing tip. His sluggish brain failed to register this for a good couple of seconds until the pain kicked in, and he jumped up, cursing.

I left, safe in the knowledge that I have the Medusa Touch.

"It's not just a damned headache!"
(Countryslicker, Tue 11 Feb 2014, 19:51, 5 replies)