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This is a question Filth!

Enzyme says: Tell us your tales of grot, grime, dirt, detritus and mess

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:04)
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The finest use of a pool table I have ever witnessed…

A few years ago I was a fledgling young potential alcoholic…working hard to forge myself a reputation as an utter waste of space to all and sundry whilst occasionally dragging along a guitar to certain establishments and strumming out a few tunes to unfortunate locals. This tended to cement a general begrudged acceptance that I was a ‘half-decent singer who is also a bit of a twat…’ Fair enough.

Moving on…due to my locality at the time (brother flake and his fiancé were letting me crash at their shag pad at the time), my local booze emporium inevitably became a place that was within staggering distance of our collective rented accommodation*. Sweet.

The landlord of said establishment was a guy named Justin. Now Justin was a good looking, charming, intelligent, ball-bag of a man. You hated him because he was so.cocking.brilliant. (oh, leave off - I’m English…that’s my job). His wife Denise however, also just so happened to be a smoking hot phenomenal globule of pure beauty – she would occasionally dress her ‘bite-the-back-of-your-hand-beautiful’ body for certain ‘theme nights’ and if you weren’t instantly and impressively aroused by what you saw when she wore such lovely slutty clothing (on things like ‘naughty nurses evening’ for instance) then you must officially be a bumder. I don’t make the rules – that’s how it is.

On the day in question, I was up early, seemingly determined to remain young and jobless, and was attempting to maximise my pitiful unemployment benefit by getting as rat-arsed as humanly possible - as cheaply and quickly as possible - whilst maintaining some slight hint of dignity and still getting pissed at a licensed establishment...as opposed to blagging cans of christ-knows-what-sort-of-rat’s-piss from Tesco or the local offie.

I know.

In keeping with tradition I managed to stagger from the night before manoeuvre my way to the pub at the very stroke of 11:00am…yet as I walked towards the door and gave it a manly ‘shove’ I noticed that it was still firmly locked and bolted. Of course I stepped back, recoiling in horror, and looked around for any sort of confirmation that something wasn’t right. It was then that I spotted something that immediately didn’t quite compute as ‘normal’ with my meagre brain…

Outside the front of the building there were some chaps gathered around. I quickly deduced from the massive lorry parked nearby that these fellas were brewery delivery guys, dropping off the latest wonderful barrels to keep me in the manner to which I had become accustomed. They’re saints, all of ‘em – god bless ‘em etc.

Only now they weren’t doing their usual job…the three of them were crouched down by the front bay window of the pub and were sneaking glances into the extended bar section where the pool table was situated.

Call me ‘Sherlock’, but I gathered my thoughts…and then rapidly reasoned: ‘this must be juicy, I’m having a gander at this!’

I crept up beside said delivery chaps, and we shared that instant connection that happens when something naughty is going on. They did the old ‘put your finger to your lips….Shhhhhh’ motion with an accompanying ‘wink’ that suggested I should remain still and generally shut the fuck up. So that’s what I did. They all then gently nudged along the window frame giving me the opportunity to look in.

My jaw almost hit the window frame as I peered in and saw the lovely Denise bent over the pool table, writhing back and forth in such a responsive fashion that it kind of reminded me of when I used to play ‘Buckaroo’ when I was a kid and tried to put the oversized lasso on. Justin, in the meantime, proceeded to thrunge back and forth with a quite genuinely impressive gusto.

Denise’s leg lifted up against one of the pockets, ensuring to position herself for maximum pleasure for the both of them, and as she gasped, she grabbed lumps out of the green baize; rocking back and forth, as I began to doubt the usefulness of the table in future following such shenannigans. Justin was understandably curling his lip and trying desperately not to splooge too soon as he pumped away enthusiastically.

Soon, several other regulars approached the pub door before spotting what we were all looking at, and they crawled over to join in the voyeurism. At the end there was quite a few of us, all jostling for a place to get the best viewing angle – all dirty pervs the lot of us. I have no excuse.

At that moment - had it been a more perfect moment - I wish it had actually been a snooker table they were on, because I could have used the ‘missed the easy pink and slid on to the tight brown’ metaphor…but either way, our eyes collectively opened even wider as Justin decided to go the ‘whole hog’, and slipped her a glistening portion up her glorious dirtbox, whilst remaining completely oblivious that more people were watching this blisteringly impressive display than apparently admit to watching the last series of X-Factor. i.e.- there was about 15 of us.

I have to admit - It truly was a magnificent performance…yet as I watched, I began to remember the reason I was there, and I wasn’t the only one. However, one of the onlookers decided to be decidedly cruel in their timing of what was to transpire.

As Justin began to ‘quicken his step’ somewhat, thrusting even more enthusiastically than usual, we could all tell that he was inching ever nearer to the jester’s shoes. With seconds to go before the final vinegar stroke, one of the locals decide to 'bang' on the window ‘RAT-A-TAT-TAT’ as hard as he could on the glass and bellow “Oi!, Are you open or what? I want a fuckin’ drink!”

Now not only myself, but my entire entourage of filthy onlookers decided to do the decent thing and dart cowardly down behind the wall – before tentatively glancing back up again to see a red-faced pair, still in mid-copulation, realising that they had been properly busted, before deciding whether to drop what they were doing and flee back to their paid vocations…or finish the job at hand.

To their eternal credit – they finished the job.

As he spoffed with such ferocity that it could have been a tourist attraction to rival Niagra falls, Justin couldn’t help but smirk as he looked around to see a gaggle of locals giving the pair of them a standing ovation. He eventually zipped up and opened the doors for us all to enjoy the hush-fund of the first drink being on the house.

What a pair of legends.

The respect we had for them both following that was awesome - Other than a few practical jokes – I remember a lump of bogroll being left by the pool table, a few jokes being made about 'irregular stains', and there was also a quite spirited reluctance to have the first game of pool following what we had witnessed, but other than that they pretty much got away with it.

Hmmm – But what relevance could this possibly have to the QotW? I hear you ask...

Well…‘Filth’? …She certainly bloody well was...pure filth…and although I never got to experience her first hand, I can heartily concur that she was brilliant.

God bless her, and all who sail in her.

*The pub was called the ‘Peeping Tom’ – what are the odds of that!
(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 17:01, 3 replies)
Well I like this.

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 20:04, closed)

its a shame so many local pubs are going to the boards these days
yes they are a slightly more expensive way of drinking
but where the hell else do you get entertainment like that ?

The only negative part of this post is the fact i cant get chaz and daves
"snooker loopy" out of my fucking head now

oh and lets create a visual for the story too

(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 10:17, closed)
That's the place...

Your photo is taken from round the back...which incidentally, was also what happened to Denise...
(, Wed 8 Feb 2012, 12:38, closed)

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