years ago when I was a fresh faced backpacker wearing drip dry clothes in primary colour with extra buttons so you could turn them into short sleeves and shorts, with pockets on the sleeves just in case the eight others weren't enough
where was I? Ah yes, I'd caught a bus to a village south of Leeds to visit a mate of my dads. It might have been called liversage, but the pub in the small village on top of a hill was definetly called The Fountain. Anyway, you know that scene from American werewolf in london where he goes into the pub on the moors and all these wierd villages stare at him? Well it was like that. If there was a piano player he would stopped mid-bar. It was like I'd stepped out of a fucking spaceship. Obviously they didn't get too many strangers drinking there. My dad's friend wasn't there so I had naught to do but sip my bitter for what seemed like an awkward age while they continued to stare at me like I might change shape at any moment.
funny thing was, when my dad's mate finally arrived and the locals learned that I knew him, they couldn't have been more friendly and welcoming, cracking jokes about australians and the rugby. And christ they could knock back the pints that lot. I ended up chundering at the snooker club later that night, but that's another story. "bitter and bile on the baize" with a foreword by Jimmy White, Penguin 1997
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 13 Feb 2014, 10:06, 1 reply)

Liversedge is real
and near Leeds.
(squigbobble existed, Thu 13 Feb 2014, 13:27, closed)