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

(, Thu 2 Feb 2012, 13:04)
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Suits, beer and cack encrusted tramps.
A few of years ago the sweary one and I were in town, doing some shopping. I’m after a black suit for my graduation, and she’s after a nice new dress for said occasion. As often happens in these situations, we both find what we want pretty quickly and are faced with the familiar, age old dilemma – back home, or pub?

Pub wins. Every time.

So, we are firmly ensconced in the Strawberry, enjoying a foamy pint of Old Cuntbuster (or some similarly ludicrously-named real ale), and having a smoke, when this bloke rolls up. I use the term ‘bloke’ loosely – he was barely recognisable as human. “Hev ye gorra tab I can borra mate”? slurs the man-thing, to us (I never understood that particular phrase – if I give you my name and address are you going to return said fag in the post to me)?

At this point we both become aware of an almighty foul stench that has just assaulted our olfactory senses, and realise it’s coming from this random cigarette-bumming missing link. Desperate to be rid of him the sweary one replies, “Yeah, here” and thrusts a cancer stick in his general direction. It was on doing this that we noticed a bit more about him.

The guy had a beard that was obviously the result of several years’ growth. Within that beard was a carefully-cultivated mat of the most offensive looking vomit I have ever seen. I could feel the bile rising slowly and the colour draining from my cheeks as the smell he had brought with him became overpowering, and as he turned to stumble back towards the bar, we noticed what was an absolute tour-de-force of shit plastering the back of his jeans. From the inside. The guy had heroically shat himself in what can only be described as a voluminous manner, probably more than once, but was obviously too pissed to notice and had ground this horrific life-form into his jeans through the simple act of sitting on a bar stool (‘scuse pun) and shifting his weight around occasionally in order to get comfy.

Gagging, we stayed and continued our pints, lighting up again several times to combat the smell. How the barman continued to do his job without retching is a mystery I still ponder to this day.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:03, 6 replies)
These guys inevitably get hit by a car
as they stagger about town.
So, to the cops, paramedics, nurses and doctors who have to deal with them,

I salute you.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:06, closed)
As soon as I saw "sweary one" I knew it bad to be you ;)
I shall now read the rest of the post, sure in the knowledge that it will be worth the effort!
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:29, closed)




Utterly foul!

Brilliantly written nonetheless.

I am chewing back my own bile as I click.
(, Fri 3 Feb 2012, 15:39, closed)
THE Strawberry? Outside SJP the Sports fucking Direct fucking Arena?

I'm surprised the bastard hasn't bought the pub and renamed that...
(, Sat 4 Feb 2012, 22:06, closed)
The very same.

(, Sun 5 Feb 2012, 12:09, closed)
I was just thinking...
... Typical match day...
(, Mon 6 Feb 2012, 17:37, closed)

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