Alexander Thomas Jeremiah O'Malley
It had been a long day in work, and I'd gotten to the point where laying out letterheads and reformatting copy had made me want to drown my sorrows under a vast lake of ale, so on my way home I decided to stop in at one of the nicer pubs in Liverpool (I know, I know, that's got to be a contradiction in terms, right? Well no, wrong. Anyway.) and get my drunk on.

I'd barely touched my lips to the top of the head of my first pint of Cains Victorian Beer - a seasonal brew that I was going to take full advantage of - when a cheery-faced middle aged bloke turned to me and said, in a clear and precise RP voice, "Long day at work, then, was it?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," I said, trying not to laugh at the toy frog that was poking out of this guy's breast pocket.

"My name, sah, is Alexander Thomas Jeremiah O'Malley. Would it be alright for me to talk with you for a bit?"

And so we did. Two whole hours, he regaled me with stories of how he'd travelled the globe; how he'd been in the Royal Marines and the SAS, protecting Queen and country; how he, single-handedly, had solved drought issues all over Africa, and how he had invented a car that would run on nowt but water and some booze. He was a loon, certainly, but everyone in there seemed to know him, and so the idea that he may well turn violent or angry never really crossed my mind.

"So what brings you to Liverpool," I said, four pints down and at least another two more to go. "Well, I always loved the Beatles, and I always loved... uh, rivers, and tracksuits," he replied, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.

"But surely there are nicer places than this in the world," I said, confused.

"Aah, well, quite, but there's none with a pub like this," he replied, making a broad, sweeping gesture with his arm as he did so.

And with that we continued to drink.

It was another hour and a bit later when I noticed that he was pronouncing words incorrectly. And not in a "yyyou're great you, fuckhnnn love yew yer me bezzzt mate" pissed sort of a way. No. His clear and precise received pronunciation was becoming a garbled mess. And then he turned to me, suddenly, as I was nearing the end of what was to be my final pint that evening.

"So. no_offenc. Do you mind... do you mind if I ask yew a questyern?"

"Go ahead mate," I replied, "I'm off after this'n though so you'd best make it quick."

"Where..... wheeeere would yewwww say I'm from?"

"...I honestly couldn't tell you. Oxford? Somewhere down South, at any rate... why?!"

"Aaahahahahahah, I can't believe you fell for it, you stupid bugger!" he said loudly, tearing up with laughter.

"What do you mean, 'fell for it'?" I asked, somewhat confused.

"You mean you didn't pick up on it?" he replied, his voice suddenly lower pitched and utterly, utterly Scouse. "You soft tit! You only went and fell for my accent tricks!"


Length? Far more than a yard of ale, I can tell you.
(No offenc - not to be confused with no_offenc, Fri 31 Oct 2008, 12:19, 3 replies)

Which Pub?
I'm out in Liverpool tomorrow night, and again on Monday for an all day session...
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 31 Oct 2008, 13:47, closed)

You know what...
The joke can't have been *that* subtle.

I was referencing the Dispensary, anyway. Lovely little place.
(No offenc - not to be confused with no_offenc, Fri 31 Oct 2008, 13:50, closed)

Bollolcks
I've just got it...

Now I have to hang my head in shame
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Fri 31 Oct 2008, 14:37, closed)