Post Office
I used to work at a fantastic local pub in a quiet street in suburban London. It was about five minutes away from anything anyone could possibly want; shopping centre, local business, office, so it's evenings were packed and the pub made good money, but was still a locals establishment with a great stock of characters.

The best of them was it's own Manager. He would lie about anything, since his job was to sit, drink and entertain anyone with his enormous collection of enormous stories.

Because some of his stories were credible, Phil Taylor had challenged him to a game of darts - I've seen pictures, celebs from Eastenders have been regulars in the pub quiz - my eyes have seen it, it gave him the upper hand in the game of lying.

I worked there for about a year and a half or so, pretty much constantly. I'd work a couple of nights a week, as well as opening up during the days. Over that time I learnt the unspoken rule.

If he said he was going to the Post Office, that meant he was off to shag his bird and we should cover for him when the wife came home. I don't know whether he expected us to tell his wife that exact reason, because he would disappear for hours, sometimes out for the whole day. We joked with the punters, who said there must have been a pub in Newcastle called 'the Post Office'. Sometimes he'd mix up the routine and say the Dry Cleaners instead, but quickly dropped it when he came back empty handed.

I remember my favourite night at that pub. The boss had disappeared at lunch, I finished early, stayed there drinking, and had a couple after hours with the other staff. We were just finishing the last inches when Boss came staggering through the door, in boxers with his trousers draped over his arm, cigar to top it off.

There was a pause, he looked at us slightly confused, his brain taking its time processing the situation. Finally he shrugged and muttered the magic words "Post Office."
(MrTeapot hasn't played with himself since, Sat 1 Dec 2007, 23:01, Reply)