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)