Me, as Barman, c. 1997
Being the nearest rock pub to the local college (which had a large Art dept.) we used to get 10-15 sixteen and seventeen yr old goths come in every weekday afternoon. I instantly hated them, but the owner put up with them because they drank their own bodyweights in our foul coffee, never asked for alcohol and ploughed all their bus money into the pool table and jukebox. After telling them for the thousandth time that gobbing in the ashtrays and having crisp fights is not really acceptable, the gothest, most miserable and most heavily made-up of the bunch comes to the bar and asks for a Pernod and Black. I ID him, and he leaves, looking even more sullen and muttering unpleasantries about me being `worse than Hitler`. The next day they all come back in and he asks for the same thing, I ID him and he pulls out his birth certificate. I look at him, look at the BC, then back at him before loudly asking "Your name is Clifford?!?" before breaking with fits of laughter.

Everty time he came in for the next 6 months all the big hairyarse bikers at the bar would break out into a chorus of `Living Doll` and I would roar with laughter.

They kept gobbing in the ashtrays though. Twunts.
(FiftyFour, Thu 12 May 2005, 15:05, Reply)