I've probably told this one before but it's my favourite bar story
Me and my friends (a bunch of crusty grebos to a man) decided that for a bit of fun we'd go out to Wolverhampton for the night, but to try something different. We dressed in our best shirts, shined our shoes, applied hairgel and decided to see what life was like in the "trendy" bars we usually eschewed.

Our skills at going undercover as "Kevs" were woeful - we stuck out like sore thumbs to the point the bouncer described my friend Si as "that one with the shirt" in a bar full of men wearing shirts. The only upshot was that the bar we were in was having a Star Wars night and all the staff were dressed up.

I sidled up to the bar hoping to get served by one of the lucious Leias, but instead found myself confronted with a blond-wigged, judo-suited Luke. I ordered four pints, he fetched them for me and told me the price. Quick as a flash (and grinning like an idiot) I waved my hand in a mysterious way and said "It's okay, I've already paid you for them." He said, "You what?" and I repeated it. He said, "Oh, right" and walked away to serve someone else.

I did the Jedi mind trick on Luke Skywalker. I'd just like to repeat that so that my eight year-old self can feel justifiably proud of his latter-day incarnation: I did the Jedi mind trick on Luke Skywalker.

I'd only meant it as a joke
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:07, 13 replies)

The Stripper and the Retard
I was out seeing a good friend of mine, about an hours drive away, and it wasn't long before we were laughing and reminiscing about the good old days.

He suggested we visited a pub nearby called "The Prince of Wales", not only for their beer, but for their entertainment too ! I had a thirst on, so agreed, not knowing what the entertainment was, I was content that I was in the company of an old friend, and thats all that mattered.

The pub was a bit of a dive to say the least, pretty dark and dingy, the pool table had seen much better days, but the place was rammed - mostly with old men, or men you are likely to meet hiding in a bush. But the beer was good, so we managed to grab a table and waited for the "entertainment".

It wasn't long before music started and a beautiful buxom blonde came out, wearing a stars and stripes bikini.

It wasn't long before she was out of it too..

Jiggling about and dipping her breasts in punters pints, this girl was really going for it ! Then she climbed onto the pool table and started knocking balls into the pockets with her tits.. She really knew how to put on a good show, and it appeared she was more than a little comfortable with the dirty old men having a good grope!

She made her way to the bar, where there stood an old man, and what was quite obviously his retarded son.

Now I don't know if it was pity, or quite what she was thinking - maybe she thought, there was never going to be a chance of the lad ever having a relationship..knowing the feel or smell of a real woman..

She dipped two fingers inside her and said "Here you are.. What do you think of this"? as she shoved her wet fingers under the retards nose.

His reply, couldn't be scripted..and had the whole pub doubled over..

"SMELLS LIKE MY SISTER" he shouted.

I laughed so hard, I wee'd a little.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:31, 5 replies)

Why do you beat me up, buttercup baby…

Sooo many of my previous efforts have been on the subject of pubs…but I’m not a big fan of pearoasts and constantly fight the temptation to dig up a story which you've already suffered once before.

The reason I am saying this is because I can’t remember if I’ve already told this…Apologies if I have, but I’m going to carry on anyway…

‘Wavy lines’ aplenty to the end of 2006…and my crap cover version band are in full, busy flow – we know the set like the back of each other’s hands and could play through it utterly shitfaced...which was handy, because that's what we often did.

We had a few regular haunts but were always keen to get new mugs…sorry, ‘gigs’…and we were informed that our services might be required at a ‘Firkin’ pub in the middle of Coventry town centre.

Being conscientious drunkards we decided to go on a ‘reconnaissance piss up’ beforehand to check the place out.

It quickly passed our discerningly high standards…it sold beer. On the weekday evening we went, there were only a few students rattling round the place. The landlady seemed like a nice enough girl, if a little young and naive to be running a town centre pub (she offered us top whack money and free drinks), but overall, everything was fine and the gig was set up.

That Friday, as we arrived with our gear, the atmosphere was strange. Yes, there were the expected few student types about, but the place was heaving with rough-looking Goths, Emos and Skankheads…within 30 seconds I was nostril-deep in piercings, black trenchcoats and gravity defying hairdos.

I have no problem with these types whatsoever (I used to dabble in these fads when I was younger). I did however, fear somewhat that our happy, foot-tapping bop-a-lot 60’s pop sing-along set would not be their particular cup of herbal tea sprinkled with magic mushrooms.

As we shifted about nervously we were approached by a man who, judging by the response of the barstaff, looked to be in charge. “Where’s the landlady?”, we tentatively enquired.

“There’s been a ‘situation’…we’ve had to let her go” said the podgy, stern looking gent.

At this point I was expecting (and almost looking forward to) the: ‘Now get your stuff, and fuck off!’ speech, but the stand-in landlord continued:

“She’d been skimming off the takings for months…blagged thousands” (not quite so naive then) “But it’s not your problem lads, you can still play”

Aww…shit

Then, with a facial expression that alone sent my spider senses tingling into ‘fucksocks’ mode, he said: “It’s just that…she didn’t exactly leave on ’good terms’…She’s promised to get ‘the lads’ to come and smash the place up…tonight!”

My insight had indeed served me well…and ‘fucksocks’ mode was well and truly engaged...with a hearty side order of 'crikeybuggeration'.

We weighed up our options. Bravely, my initial gut reaction was to bollock the fuck out of the place so quickly that there would be a Pooflake shaped hole in the wall.

But, strangely, and after a pint to pursuade us, we decided to stay (we had unpacked everything by now anyway). We sat down with our drink and discussed what we would do when it kicked off, how we would communicate mid-song if anybody saw any trouble…what gear we could grab and still swiftly make it out of there alive…all with a fixed, glazed gurn that was a combination of fake bravado, alcohol fuelled petulance and the clear and present danger of a monumental brown trout nudging in my cowardly squit-factory.

All too soon, it was time to go on. The soundcheck was non-existent. Brushing our way past the white-faced scowling masses we began our set…and I was quickly given a lesson about prejudging stereotypes.

Every single person got up, smiled, danced and sang along. They were fucking brilliant. Applause and cheers rang out as we played – the drinks flowed, the atmosphere was fantastic and I can’t describe the joyous relief as I realised that everything was going to be alright…

Then, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself…they walked in.

Six menacing blokes, built like the kind of concrete bunker you would construct if a brick shithouse just wasn’t sufficiently sturdy enough for your faecal needs. They bought a round of drinks and sat down at the back as the place fell silent. The band looked at each other and thought ‘This is it’. I clutched my guitar, then glanced down at the set list, saw the next song, and started to play…

The song was ‘Build me up, buttercup’.

All heads turned towards the group of hard-arsed headcases. Word had obviously got round what was going to happen. But as I watched…one of the mens’ granite-faced grimaces slowly melted into a smile, and then he began to sing along! The whole bunch of musclebound mentalists then visibly relaxed as they got more and more swept away by the carefree atmosphere.

Within 10 minutes, they were up and dancing with everybody else. The night was a total success!

Eventually, after a few encores, the gig ended and gaggles of people approached us to thank us…who then quickly parted like the Red Sea as this hulking man who appeared to be the ringleader of the wrecking crew walked up to me.

Towering over me as I quivered in fear, the half-man, half-gorilla boomed; “You guys...were fucking brilliant tonight mate”

“W-w-w-w-well thank you“ I stammered.

He then continued: “Hey, tell you what, It’s my dad’s birthday coming up soon, He'd love your band...have you got a business card?”

With my hands still trembling I handed him a card.

His face then changed from a smile, to an angry sneer contorted with rage as he bellowed: “OI!, YOU CUNTS!...”

(At this point I deduced that the appropriate course of action was to cry, run, shit my pants or a combination of all three), before he turned and continued:

“…Come and give these lads a hand”.

The turd was schlurped back up my arse as I realised he was talking to his mates, who then cheerily got up, and helped us carry our equipment to the car, each of them complementing us on how they hadn’t had such a great night in ages.

The place soon cleared as we packed up and after a while it was just us left. As the last bit of kit was packed the ringleader asked us: “Are you guys off now?”

“Yes…cheers” I mewed meekly.

“Righto then, Seeya! ” he said with a grin, a wink and a wave...

I then watched in disbelief as he picked up a huge lump of wood from a broken crate on the floor, strolled happily back into the pub…and started to smash the total shit out of the place with his mates.

We drove off just as a chair was thrown through one of the windows.

I learned a lot that day… about the power of music…and the simple truth that everybody really just wants to have a good time.

I went back the following morning to discover the place was totally destroyed…but not one person had been hurt. I shudder to think what would have happened if it had kicked off when they first walked in.

Mind you, the bloke never did book us for his dad’s birthday though. Cunt.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:45, 13 replies)

A pub love story
This isn't a very funny story, but it's a nice one at least.

I met Mr Chicken at the pub I used to work at.

I was cleaning glasses and the like when a tall, dark, handsome stranger walked in.

He ordered a pint of beer. I suddenly noticed his deep blue eyes, set with dark eyelashes. Dark stubble peppered his jawline. The thin singlet he was wearing showed off intricate tattoos on his shoulders and a slightly muscular body.

Wow. He was drop dead, shake in your boots, call Emergency Services gorgeous.

I poured his pint and was aware that he was intently watching my every movement. He was very still, but his lips moved as though he was trying to say something.

Finally, he asked, "How are you?"
"Good thanks," I said politely, handing over his beer and being extra careful to make sure there was the correct amount of head and that I didn't spill it on him and suddenly being very precious about this beer I was about to give to a very good looking stranger.

He went quiet again and sipped his beer. I caught his eye a few times as I cleaned the bar. I hoped, for one fleeting instant, that I had caught him looking at me.

Eventually, he spoke again.

"I like your shirt," he said shyly.
I was wearing a shirt with various characters from Gumby on it.
"Thankyou," I said.

We both smiled at each other. He had a gorgeous smile. I turned around, embarassed.

Many pints later, me and (the future) Mr Chicken were singing along to Rage Against the Machine, talking about music and his burgeoning musical career (he plays drums in a band...hot), bitching about hospitality (turns out Mr Chicken was a bartender as well) and sneakily perving on each other when our backs were turned.

As we finally closed the bar for the night, Mr Chicken got up to leave. "Much love," he slurred, and waved as he stumbled out the door.

I hoped I'd see him again.

And I did. Nearly every weekend.

If his pint was empty, I looked past the line of customers and got his beer first. I made excuses to go pick up glasses when I'd actually go out into the beer garden and talk to him. We talked shyly over the bar, occasionally getting a bit flirty after Mr Chicken downed a few pints. I discovered that as well as being insanely good looking, he was one of the sweetest guys I’d ever met. My heart melted when I saw Mr Chicken comforting some poor old drunk guy he'd probably never seen in his life.

I thought I caught Mr Chicken having an intense perve on me a few times, but I convinced myself that it was just wishful thinking.

The flirting was getting a bit blatant too.
eg.
Mr Chicken: I play a lot of video games... I'm a bit of a nerd.
Me: That's okay, I have a nerd fetish.
Mr Chicken: :O...
Me: *runs away*
... but I didn't think I would really have a chance with this amazing guy, and tried to treat it all as a fun game.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask for his phone number (at a very drunken lock-in). After a long time, I plucked up the courage again to casually ask, "Sooo, wanna catch up for a drink sometime?"

After a few jugs of beer, we sat quietly in the beer garden. As things like that progress, confessions were made. Mr Chicken, bless his heart, had been visiting the same crappy pub for the last five months just so he could see me.

We kissed.

A week or so later I gave him a lift home after closing the bar and, er, celebrated the fact that we were going out at last. For three hours.

We live together now. I don't work at that pub anymore, but we certainly enjoy going to other ones. It's nice to be on the other side of the bar with him.

Don’t tell him I said it, but I want to marry that man one day.
(TheChicken Five hundred thousand points from Gryffindor, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 3:52, 14 replies)

My most enduring pub memory

It had been a fucking awful day.

I felt cold, numb, utterly drained. The congregation had given a collective silent sigh as the service came to a conclusion. The priest led us all back toward the church from the graveyard, where he peeled off to one side and the rest of us made our way back to our cars.

Inveitably, it started to rain.

I looked down at my feet and noticed my shoes were muddy, I remember taking far too long to clean the mud off my shoes before I got into the car. I was with Greg's sister and my own sister in the back of one of the big black hire cars. I'd known Greg since I was nine and couldn't believe he was gone...

Still can't, really...

We went to the reception at a pub named the Anchor in a little village in leafy Northamptonshire. Nice place. Good food, free beer, but quite frankly I felt like shit and didn't want to do anything except go home and get into bed. Sleep this awful day out of my system.

Greg had been ill for fucking ages, but I never really understood it would end, that there would be such a brutal finality to it all.

After a while, trying not to look akward and failing, I noticed Greg's mum.

"Spanky, Greg wanted you to have this," she smiled and we had a little hug. I could see she was barely holding it together. She gave me a small envelope and after a moment or two she went off to talk to someone else.

I was feeling so fucking low. I'd just buried my best mate and here in my hands he was about to talk to me from beyond the fucking grave... All I wanted was him back and breathing and talking the usual shit he'd talk. But that just wasn't going to happen.

Feeling the need to smoke, I went out to the beer garden which was empty, the rain lashing down driving anyone sensible inside.

I quickly opened the envelope and for the first time that day I smiled, and then I started to laugh...

Inside on a single post it note, in his familiar spider scrawl, Greg had written:


CUNT X X X


Ahh, he is missed!
( SpankyHanky, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 23:43, 12 replies)

The loneliest Englishman
Years ago I was in a pub with my then girlfriend, the TV was showing Eurosport and it announced "Coming up next: Irish greyhound racing", my girlfriend said "I wonder what the difference to normal greyhound racing is?" to which I loudly proclaimed "The rabbit chases the dogs!" I thumped the table in mirth and sat back laughing...

...my girlfriend was looking at me in horror, it was then that I remembered:

She was Irish.
We were sitting with her Irish parents who I had just met.
We were in an Irish pub.
In Ireland.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 16:45, 13 replies)

Sizzled.
I work in motorsport. Sounds glamorous, actually isn’t. My chosen branch of motorsport is the poor relation of Formula 1. The kind of motorsport that is kept chained up in the loft and never spoken of. You do however meet all kinds of characters, from multi-millionaires (of which there are many) to journeymen mechanics who have been spannering cars in all four corners of the globe, man and boy.

The maxim ‘Work hard, play hard’ has never been truer than for those people who work with racing cars for a living. Everyone seems to be a borderline alcoholic, but after pulling your plums out for seven days on the trot, for twenty hours a day, in the frozen wastes of Sweden to the dust bowls of Greece, you could be forgiven for wanting to let your hair down a little at the end of an event.

One engineer I had the pleasure of working with had a legendary reputation for mischief after a drink or two, he had that genius streak that left him perpetually teetering on the borderline of brilliance and madness.

He had a real Jekyll and Hyde personality, after just a single glass of red wine or a Gin and Tonic, the mild mannered engineer (who had spent just a few of his formative years in Liverpool) would transform into the most Liverpudlian drunk you would ever meet. It was a given that bad things always happened when he had a drink, and you could always be sure there would be a large, expectant, crowd gathered to watch the resulting mess.

After one particular session, he came out of a nightclub and got an attack of the munchies as soon as he saw the hot dog van serving tepid, vaguely burger and sausage shaped scrapings form the abattoir floor, to a captive audience of hungry drunks.

Full of Dutch courage our hero marched to the front of the lengthy queue and demanded, in the nicest possible way, to be served one of the vendors fine hot dogs. ‘Mate, mate, gis a hot dog mate’.

Obviously used to such behaviour, Mr Sizzle (other mobile food franchises are available) pointed to the back of the queue and politely invited our friend to join it. Not to be deterred, and now on a full charm offensive, Mr Engineer again demanded to be served a hot dog. ‘Aw, mate, come on mate, gis a hot dog’. Once again he is invited to join the back of the queue, but again he declines offer.

Mr Sizzle and the queue of angry drunks have now had enough, and despite desperate pleas, Mr Engineer is being ignored by Mr Sizzle. With logic that could only be applied by a steaming drunk, Mr Engineer staggers around to the back of the hot dog van.

Imagine the look on the faces of those in the queue, and Mr Sizzle, as the hot dog van drives off down the road just as Mr Sizzle is serving his umpteenth grease-fest of the night! The van draws to a halt, Mr Engineer disembarks, staggers back around to the front of the van and calmly and politely again asks for a hot dog, citing that he is now at the front of the queue, where-upon, as a nod to his ingenuity, determination and sheer cheek and stupidity, Mr Sizzle promptly served him his hot dog.
(Mr_Wendel, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:41, 5 replies)

Vigil

In early April 1994 some fella from some band topped himself.

The student union was like a fucking wake. Some fuckers even held a candlelit vigil, it was like drinking in a church (which probably wouldn't be a bad idea at all).

My troop and I entered the quiz that night, life goes on and all that shit.

We made some people cry when they read out our team name.

Pens poised, pints at the ready, we were prepared to take on the clever kids for the right to win a load of shit with the logo of our University plastered all over it.

Our team name?

Kurt Cobain's Colourful Carpet.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:29, 20 replies)

Children in Pubs

Since the smoking ban my local, The Junction, Tufnell Park, has become little more than a playground for little kids.

When I'm sitting in a beer garden, sucking on the end of Benson & Hedges with as much skill and determination as a hooker on steroids, drinking beer and talking bollocks, the last thing I want is to have some little brat trip over my feet. Or worse still, have some parent tell me off for using colourful language. Its a PUB!!! FUCK OFF!!!

Along with the kids comes the food. Trying to enjoy a long and heartfelt conversation about feltching is pretty damn hard if you've gotta raise your voice above the clatter and din of cutlery hitting plates.

The other day I got my own back in the most insignificant way imaginable, but it made me feel sooooooo much better.

A little kid, think he was named Thaddeus. (Thaddeus, for fucks sake!) Was twatting about round the table my friends and I were drinking at. Sweet, darling little Thaddeus was doing the aeroplane noise thing three year old boys love to do. He stopped the aeroplane noise occasionally to 'shoot' the people on my table with a couple of Heinze sauce bottles he aquired from the condiments trolly (fucking condiments trolly - its a fucking PUB!).

Thaddeus was really getting on my tits.

His parents were WAY OVER THE OTHER SIDE of the beer garden, enjoying a nice QUIET meal, completely oblivious to the fact that their little shit of a son was destroying my calm.

Thaddeus stopped and grinned at me. I grinned back. I was thinking about offering him a fag, but thought better of it.

Instead I said: "Can I have a look at those?" Pointing at his tomato sauce bottle 'cannons'.

He offered me the bottles, I quickly loosened the tops and said: "Why don't you go and dive bomb mummy and daddy?" And gave him a little push. And off he scampered, giggling like a retard.

Five....
Four....
Three...
Two...
One...

"AAAAAiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !!!"

Said Thaddeus' mother and father, as their son proceeded to shower the contents of two bottles of tomato sauce over their hair, clothes, table, and general vicinity with accompanying machine gun sound effects.

It was like something out of Scarface.

I was very proud.

Scary thing is, Ms Hanky and I are trying for a kid at the moment...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:28, 14 replies)

White russian, anyone ???

Back in the heady days of the early ninetees, I used to know a girl named Kate.

Or, to use her nickname, Bucket Fanny.

This nickname was well-earned. She was, shall we say, a bit of a goer.

I recall one occasion in the Student Union Kate aka Bucket Fanny picked up this fella with the grace, flair, and poise of a street hooker. Within about five minutes she was leading this young gentelman by the cock to the toilets.

We carried on with our drinks and general talk about fuck all.

Kate returns about ten minutes later, her lips tightly sealed. She sits down, picks up a shot glass, and gobs out a rather sizable load of man juice, filling the shot glass just about half full.

"White russian, anyone?" She said, sounding rather pleased with herself.

Now that, my friends, is a fucking show stopper...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 16:52, 11 replies)

Knights Templar, Chancery Lane - might be a bit long
I have a few, including the weekly harassment of Gonch from Grange Hill, the once-in-a-lifetime "pound a pint of stella" night (terrible experiment never to be repeated), and the ale-swigging Japanese tour group.

But this is my main one. The facts are 100% true.

I was in there after work one Friday, and it was packed as ever. We noticed one guy though with a video camera sticking out of his bag. He seemed to be pointing it under the tables.

So - pervert or thief? He did this for a little while before someone asked him what he was up to. "I just bought this" he said; "I want to show it to a friend".
"But its old?" we replied.
"Ah, well I bought it second hand".

We thought this was pretty dubious but let it go.
Anyway 10 minutes later he was at it again, filming people while trying to hide the camera.

"fuck this" said my colleague, and manhandled the man out of the pub, ignoring his protestations of "I'm allowed to do this".

Just as he did this, another man walked into the middle of the room, started shouting, stuck his hand inside his shirt, and pulled his own, beating heart out. A girl screamed "oh my God he's dead!".

But he wasn't; it was gurning merkin cockmunch David Blaine - he was going into that box the next day, and was after some publicity. Except it was a big waste of time, because just minutes previously we'd booted his cameraman out of the pub.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 14:02, 8 replies)

drunk depressed merkin
Myself and a group of friends were in a quiet pub having some mid week drinks to cope with the high levels of stress that undergraduate students have to cope with.

As the night wore on the bar got quieter and quieter which was in stark contrast to the lone American at the bar who was becoming louder and more emotional by the minute.

Our group felt sorry for the bar staff who looked very uncomfortable but we were certainly enjoying hearing about how he didn't want a girlfriend just yet, he'd only had sex once and regretted it. He told his mum about it and though she was disappointed with him she was glad he'd decided to try being celibate again.

The conversation at our table started up again and it wasn't until a while later we realised the poor guy had burst into a fit of tears at the bar. Getting drunk was obviously his way of letting it all out.

Concerned but wanting to remain stoically British about the situation we didn't really know what to do. Then Colin decided to go up to him and see if he was ok.

"Are you alright?"

"It's so cold and wet in this country!" spluttered the now angry yank. "And there's never any sun. Where's the fucking sun!?"

The guy had a point. It was a small village on the east coast of Scotland and it was always windy, cold and wet. More to the point, we were only a couple of months into the first semester and already it was pretty much dark a little after 15:00.

We felt this guy's pain. He was clearly new to this land and thousands of miles from home. But sometimes you just hear something that cuts through all that and you can't help but laugh. Lots.

"Well, this is Scotland." said Colin, "What did you expect?"



"I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LIKE BRAVEHEART!"

Scotland is not like Braveheart. My only suggestion is that Hollywood films contain warnings for Americans about how they have no grip on reality in the slightest. And allow me to conclude with a joke from Frankie Boyle. "When they were making Braveheart people were saying Mel Gibson would never make a convincing Scotsman. And now look at him: a racist alcoholic."
( djtrialprice, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:27, 8 replies)

Face Plant
Some years back, I had a friend who was a dedicated drinker (as was I). He was wandering back from the bar with four pints (a feat I've still not mastered, I can only carry three), when he tripped over.

He managed to save the pints with narry a drop spilt. By letting his head pass between his arms and hit the floor first. Legend.
(Damien_The_Unbeliever, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 20:10, 2 replies)

Paddy’s day, Ireland.
We’re already off to a bad start. I was a man of some thirty odd summers, give or take. So, one would naturally assume that an Irishman in his thirties can handle a day of celebration with a group of old friends. You would assume. Despite my nationality, I’m not too fond of Paddy’s day celebrations, don’t get me wrong, the parades are good family fun, but the pubs are a nightmare. People throng into the pubs once they open and don’t leave until closing time. Since the smoking ban came into effect it’s a nightmare, people coming in and out the door, pissed out of their mind, and no smoke to cover the smell of farts and sweat.

I went back to university to do a postgraduate course, so I was pretty broke. I had tried the “I’ll catch you guys in the evening” excuse, but my friends weren’t so easily fooled. So, I found myself at 10 a.m. with three pints of Guinness in front of me, compliments of the lads, I don’t normally drink it, but beggars can’t be choosers. The morning progressed to afternoon (no surprises there), but the evening felt very late, it was only 7 p.m. and I was wankered. We moved about the city from crowded pub to crowded pub. I had about 15 pints of Guinness inside me at this point, festering in my gut. Then the decision was made, a few spliffs, and onwards to one of those super-pubs. Usually these sort of places are horrible, but the place in question was a cut above the rest, no drunks allowed, strictly over 23 and no chavs.

Due to the night in question the bouncers had their work cut out, so we all slipped past them on our best behavior. More pints of Guinness downed and I started to sway. I was fading fast but it was still early enough. All of the guys were seasoned Guinness drinkers, but not me. I started to produce a lot of very smelly Guinness farts. Luckily this place was big enough to take a walk around, spread the revolting love and return innocently to my friends. Suddenly I felt the mother of all farts build up, fast. It was like an ostrich egg forcing its way out.

Pop! Out it came, and then started sliding down my boxers. Do farts slide? Let me tell you, they most certainly do fucking not. “Toilets, toilets, toilets” panic stricken I waddled as fast as permissible to the toilets, please God let there be no queue. The heavens looked favorably on this poor, shit smeared cretin. There was one cubicle and it was open. I bolted the door and carefully took down my trousers. Luckily my boxers had contained most of the deluge, but it still was a disaster on the scale of Katrina. I did what any misfortune in my situation would do. Carefully slipped out of the boxers, not easily done after about 20 pints, and dropped them and their contents into the toilet. Time to survey the collateral damage. The inside of my jeans were streaked with black goo, as were my legs. Lumps of shite had slipped down to the bottom of them.
And then I checked for toilet paper. Very little, very little indeed, not enough for the job at hand, but better than nothing. I managed to clean the inside of my jeans a little with the toilet paper, but there was so much left to do. My socks, yes, I can use my socks. This was starting to come up roses, although the stench was stifling.

After using my socks, I was in a pickle; I dumped the socks down the bog and whipped off my T-shirt. I still had a shirt and jacket, so I’ll get away with it. I finished mopping up as much as I could and flushed the socks and jocks down, waited and followed with the T-shirt. I gathered my battered pride, pulled up my cack stained jeans and opened the cubicle. Luckily it was a short walk to the door, I walked a quickly out of the pub leaving a fetid trail behind me. I had tied my coat around my waist to hide the smear, but no coat could hide the smell. I took the back streets home, and did the long shameful walk home, I pity the poor bastard who would even try to mug me in this pathetic state. I had a shower, washed my clothes and went to bed.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from a mate, he wanted to meet up for a pint. Unfortunately it was in the same pub. When we arrived I noticed that there was a large piece of board nailed across the door of the gents. His curiosity aroused, my friend piped up and asked the barman “what’s wrong with the bogs?”
The barman replied:
“Some filthy animal blocked it so badly on St. Paddy’s day that the place flooded with shite later that night. We had to get a plumber to drill down into the sewage system to find the blockage, it was so bad. The toilet itself had to be dismantled. We’re waiting for the renovation work to finish before they can be used again”
“How the fuck does somebody block up a toilet that bad?” asked my friend.
“When they wipe their arse with jocks, socks and T-shirt, and then proceed to flush them down, that’s fucking how, we let our guard down for one night and you see what sort of filthy chav cunts come in.” said the barman
“fucking animals” said my friend.
“fucking animals” said the barman.
“fucking animals” I mumbled.
(knackerz is skinning up, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 4:28, 1 reply)

Solo
A man on his own, in a pub, is a beautiful thing. He can come in, purchase a pint, sit down, read the paper, watch the Telly, chat with the regulars, the staff, the landlord, relax, put his feet up, watch the world go by. Its a beautiful, beautiful thing.

A woman on her own in the pub is a whore.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:06, 9 replies)

I'm a journalist
So I've spent almost every waking hour of the past 20 years in pubs.
Some highlights:
* Man walks in and waves knife "Give me the money!!" Elderly barman produces a gun and says "Fuck off, sonny." And off he fucked.
* Six foot drunk wanker turns to four foot six petite girl and calls her a slut. She shapes up and with one punch knocks him out.
* Heavily pregnant woman with her top off, sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette, holding a glass of wine while her drunk (male) friend pulls her by the nipple until the whole saggy boob is standing out about two feet away from her body.
* Old crim playing pool and his shooter accidentally falls out of his pocket.
* Smashed detectives stumbling out of the bar into squad car, turn on siren and roar off - into a parked car.
* Seeing a fire hose turned on a group of nasty bulldykes who refused, point blank, to allow anyone else to play pool even though they were crap.
* Drug dealer walks into a bar, upends about 20 grams of coke onto a table and says "It's a present from my mother!" before walking out.
* A man wins an axe in a pub trivia comp (signed by the local woodchopping champ) and proceeds to demolish a couple of tables to cheers from all.
* ANZAC day, watching the parade on TV when one colleague turns and shouts: "This one's for grandpa!" and flattens the Japanese exchange reporter who had wandered in.
* A system of pigeon holes behind a Northern Territory bar where locals would walk in, hand over their wallet and just keep drinking until the barman told them they'd run out of cash.
* Similar system in Queensland where at least 50 ATM cards with the PIN written on in texta were kept in a shoebox, the locals would just order and drink, trusting the bar staff to do the rest.
* Sex, sex and more sex in toilet cubicles, booths, on pool tables, against the bar, behind the bar, in the coolroom, on the footpath, etc etc... including one girl giving a handjob to some bloke while her boyfriend stood on the other side of her unknowing.
* Two guys walk into a bar, announce they're here to fix the pool table, mess about with it for a while, then announce they have to take it back to the factory... they weren't really repairmen.
* The free bong available to locals at one Sydney pub.
* The modelling agency brochure which hung on the wall at another where regulars were allowed to select the new barmaids.
Oh God this could go on all day... I'll just leave you with what is undoubtedly the strangest thing I've ever seen in a bar.
Troughman.
This is a guy who used to regularly be seen around Sydney laying in the toilet trough begging everyone to piss all over him.
Think I'm kidding? Google the name.
( difficultchild, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 5:02, 8 replies)

i was once dealing with
the letting of commercial premises to a bar. specifically, a lap dancing bar. the property was commercial use on the ground floor and two flats above. the landlord wanted to rush the deal through before the two flat owners found out and objected. so i came into work one morning to find all the draft licences and lease on my desk.

and saw immediately that the tenant bar was to be called DANCING BEAVERS. i stared at the documents, images of beavers slapping their flat tails around poles and grinning at me toothily filling my head. and worse. it was not exactly subtle. i could only imagine the reaction of the two flatowners above, coming home one night to find that in pink neon underneath their front door.

anyway, none of my business. i started to mark up the documents. then the phone rang. it was the tenant's solicitor.

"um, bit embarrassing this one," he said, "but i must have misheard my client when i was drafting the deeds. the - er - the name of the bar is actually DANCING DIVAS. please could you amend?"

i think it was better before...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:06, 7 replies)

Silly little bugger
As the oldest looking in my 14-year old group, I was elected to try and get served in a town-centre pub. If it worked, the others would come in and try their luck.
I stood up straight and strode to the bar, worldly and confident, deepening my voice to order a "Whiskey and Scotch please!"
(foxbean i am a one in ten, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 0:01, 1 reply)

this is one of mine
don't know if any of you are from REading, but i spent a night abusing the cocktails in the purple turtle a couple days before new years one year with some friends. this is a pearoast BTW if it sounds familiar, i simply have more time to tell the full tale now.
i basically drank a bit of EVERYTHING, at which point some bright spark suggested going next door to the fez club... this place does CHEAP double vodka with mixers for £2

after that, things are somewhat of a blur. i apparetly slid down a concrete/metal staircase on my arse. i ALLEGEDLY called some blonde girl a whore then asked for a quickie.
i then left, wandering home with my mate, whooping and running about pretending to be a plane. i rugby tackled a bin off it's concrete base. i then decided that on no account was i to go home without purchasing chicken in inhuman quantities, BUT i was WAY too drunk to order, and instead settled for lying on the floor of the chicken shop, laughing like a hyena, and banging on the counter while my veggie mate tried to guess at what i wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~wavey lines indicating blank period~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


i wake up. it's about 9am, and a small but fierce animal is burrowing round in my skull.
rubbing my face i become aware i'm coated in some kind of green slime. is this some alien menace i wonder? what could have befallen me? the sore arse could hint at some kind of cartman-esque anal probe. as the room comes into shakey focus, i realise i am stark.bollock.naked. EXCEPT for a studded jack daniels belt and socks. the light is on, the door is open, and i am on top of the duvet.
there is the pulverised remains of a large avocado in my right hand.

wandering through the lounge past the sleeping bodies of my mate and his two friends i vaguely remembered, (obviously now better attired) to the toilet i see the christmas tree is broken and de-baubled. there is stuff all over the kitchen floor where two drawers have been emptied frantically. what the fuck has been going on i ask myself?

entering the toilet, i see a pile of my clothes. my entire outfit from the night, neatly piled in front of the shitter. including a pair of converse chuck t's, wit the laces cut all the way down (and one of the tongues) and a pair of scissors.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~wavey lines~~~~~~~~~~~

my friends reliably tell me i got in, started a fight with the christmas tree, chucked some drawers about, boked in the garden whilst singing, then went to the toilet, got bollock naked apart from socks and a belt, wandered back through, inot my room past the horrified new mates, came back out accusing everyone of leaving an alien in my bed (the avocado) headbutted the shit out of it, (the green slime) then went back in and passed out.




the best bit was climbing inot bed that night to find that i'd managed to be violently, and colourfully sick UNDER the duvet.



happy days.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 9:36, 5 replies)

Dealing with problem customers
I spent a couple of happy summers working behind the bar in a Devon resort. Great job in many ways but made all the better when you could take revenge on a problem customer or four.

Back in those days you could smoke in pubs and the bar had a separate children's area where smoking was barred, but as a consequence kids weren't allowed in any of the other sections of the pub.

Now most people saw the sense in this but there was always one family a week who didn't get it. Either they tried to light up in the children's room or they brought the kids into the main bar. Once the error of their ways was explained most backed down.
Some didn't, at which point Pete the landlord would have to be pulled away from sinking pints of Directors with the locals in the main bar - an event that would mean days of slightly sarky comments from him about staff 'not being able to get laid in a brothel' or an extended rant about the poor quality of sperm that had dribbled from my father’s undoubtedly insubstantial penis down the chunk of lard my mother called a thigh – depending on how late into the drinking session he was.

Pete, being a six foot eight ex-Marine with a face that looked like it had been dragged over the rough end of the Falklands* and biceps not dissimilar to relief maps of the Himalayas had something of an advantage in negotiations with customers. Sadly he tended not to see that others not blessed with the same advantages might have a tougher time with it.

So instead of disturbing him we'd be polite but firm and get the families to shift their precious little snowflakes into the children's room where they couldn't run around without their clothes on, play catch with the vintage horse brasses or vomit down customer's legs**.

99% of people were fine with this, or chose to leave, but for the really arsy ones got a special gift. We'd throw in a round of drinks for the kiddies.

Now you might think this was rewarding someone for being a gitwizard but the dilute orange juice the pub, and I understand most pubs at that time, used had an important quality, besides looking more disturbing that Robert Killroy-Silk's skin. It contained ephedra.

Ephedra, sadly banned since 2004, occurs naturally in bitter oranges and used to be added to crap dilute orange juice to give it a tang. However, its effect on small children was a joy to behold, being roughly the equivalent of giving them Kate Moss’ daily dose of nasal supplements while applying slight electric shocks to the motor response centres of their brains.

Before long the little bastards were deep in the midst of a speed crisis, particularly if they’d gulped down the free drink as soon as possible, which they invariably did. They'd find it impossible to keep still, the hands would start flapping and food would be an anathema. Inevitably they became completely uncontrollable and could legitimately be asked to leave the pub.

We’d take side bets as which parent would lose it and hit their snot-covered little charges before the end of the lunch. As an additional bonus we knew the parents faced an afternoon of sheer hell until it wore off.

The moral of the tale, be nice to your bar staff. The wages are shit, the hours are long and we have to take our amusement where we can find it.

* It had
** All real examples
(paxvobiscum, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:57, Reply)

rupert
is one of my brother's friends who fancies himself as a bit of a toff. for example, on being told that one of my friend's boyfriends had beaten her with a belt, he lifted an eyebrow and drawled: "i say. for pleasure? or for discipline?"

another example was when he complimented a friend's german boyfriend on his excellent english, saying that the english are very lazy at learning foreign languages. the german agreed and said jokingly, "zat is because of your damned imperialism."

at which rupert puffed on his cigar and said slowly, "steady on old chap, you've had a couple of cracks at that yourself."

so the other night we were all in the pub and rupert, who is a raving alcoholic (his round is 2 double vodkas and 1 can of redbull), was utterly leathered. we saw him at the bar, gesticulating at the barman, and the next minute he was being frogmarched out of the pub, feet literally off the ground, and thrown into the street.

we ran outside, to find him groaning in the gutter.

"what did you say to them?" we asked. rupert splattered to his feet, hair everywhere, and blinked at us.

"i told them," he said, staggering. "i told them... i told them... get your fucking dirty hands off my fucking blazer. i'm not going anywhere til you roll out the fucking red carpet."

and he collapsed back onto the street again.

the man is a legend!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 12:02, 7 replies)

Oral

Loud and rowdy pub in Camden.

A girl started simulating oral sex with a Bud bottle. Lots of clapping and cheering.

"That's nothing," said the fella sat on the next table, who promptly turned to his boyfriend, unzipped his fly, and proceeded to feed his huge and rapidly hardening cock into the back of his mouth with the natural grace of a gannet swallowing a herring.

I very nearly shat myself.
( SpankyHanky, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 23:28, 3 replies)

The first of many, but Oh God was I scared.
Our tale begins a long long time ago in a country far far away (Well, Stranraer). As impressionable kids, we'd rented a static caravan on the coast, and 6 of us piled up there in mini Metro type things, poor cars weighed down to the hubs with crates of beer.

The night after we arrived, we decided to have a look at the local pub. THE local pub. Bearing in mind this place was a little bit ... 'backwater'. It seemed to be full of biker types. Lots of extremely hairy ginger men with leather jackets and tattoos. And lots of extremely hairy ginger women with leather jackets and tattoos. As we entered (picture six, scruffy studenty-types shuffling in nervously) they all turned as one, with barely disguised contempt. The pub fell silent, but fortunately, the barman was friendly enough, and his cry of 'Ach! Newcomers! what'll it be sassenachs?' seemed to calm them down a bit.

Anyway. To cut this long story short (far too late), they had karaoke. Yes. I know. Karaoke. This consisted of another hairy biker man with a CD player, and some microphones. The karaoke itself seemed to consist of Ginger Hairy Shouting to 'Ace Of Spades'. Over and Over.

Then the shout over the mike 'And now, the wee visitors are gonnae give us a song'. Oh God. What? We all turned to look at Phil. The one member of our party who seemed to have no fear, and no social graces. While we'd been skulking at the end of the bar quietly, Phil had nipped off and requested a song.

As the pub volume dropped again, we all padded nervously up to the mics, whispering to Phil 'What have you done, you shit' whilst he grinned so hard it had to hurt. We took a mike each, and the opening piano of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' started out.

Oh Jesus. Rock Opera in front of Scotlands answer to the Hells Angels. Fuck it. Not backing down, we'll never reach the door. FUCK IT. 'Mamaaaa, just killed a man'...

I had my eyes shut tightly for the first few bars, hoping that I could just deny this was happening, and it'd hurt less when the first bottle hit. And then it started. Quietly. I un-clenched a bit. What the hell? un-clenched more. Shit, they are! eyes open.

Well fuck me, if there's not a bunch of twenty-stone psychopaths with Motorhead tattoos singing along to 70's glam rock. 3 of them in the front joined us to do improvised air-guitar for the Brian May bits... those nearest the bar are doing the high parts, those closer doing the low bits, big hairy blokes are flooding forward, their arms round our shoulders, bellowing out a camp classic opera like their lives depended on it.

7 minutes later, and all the strength had disappeared from my body. We were all sweating like Gary Glitter at Heathrow, and I have never needed a pint more than that in my life.

We didn't buy a single drink for the rest of the night. When we finally left at about 3am, we hugged everyone in there, and were invited back the next year. We were taken up to the campsite on the back of 6 Harleys (or similar) still in a state of shock.

I've never forgotten that pub, and I never well.

And never forgotten that bikers like Queen.

No apologies for length, I'm still shaking at the memory.
(ArfurDaley Must try harder., Sat 7 Feb 2009, 20:55, 2 replies)

A man walks into a bar.
'It's a trap!' he said. It was an Admiral Ak-bar.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 11:28, 4 replies)

I once went to a pub
As i walked in i noticed something that caught my eye. It was a sign above the bar.
Pint Of Carling - £2.20
Chicken Sandwhich - £3.50
Handjob - £10.00
As you can imagine i was excited to say the least. Especially as the 3 girls working behind the bar were undeniably beautiful.
"shit!" i checked my pockets and found 2 measly pounds! This was not enough. I was a student and times were tough and times were even more tough when you forgot to go to the bank on the way to the local.
I asked round a few aquaintances that i had come to know through uni and eventually reached the needed amount for the one thing that would make my night spectacular.
I walked over to the bar with a huge smile that cherie blair would of been proud of.
I beckoned one of the gorgeous blondes working behind the bar over to where i was stood.
"excuse me, are you one of the girls that gives handjobs?" i asked nervously
"yes i am" she purred
"well wash your fucking hands i want a chicken sandwich"

It tasted delicious. That was a good night.
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:00, 1 reply)

New Year's Eve
I was behind the bar one New Year's Eve.

Comment has been passed before, by various people, with regards to my hair. It's a bit on the long and shaggy side, and some would maintain that, despite me being rather tall and quite broad of shoulder, it makes me look a bit effeminate. (www.b3ta.com/questions/cringe/post314605)

As the evening wore on, and people got progressively more drunk (even the bar staff were allowed a few pints that night - Keith, you were an awesome landlord...), I eventually found, at the bar, two humanoids of the distinctly male persuasion, both of whom bore more than a passing resemblance to the fearsome bastard offspring of Ross Kemp and a pork pie.

So I go to serve them.
"Yes, gents?"
"You wanna gerra haircut, mate. You look like a girl."
(Musn't be rude to the customer...)
"Haha, yeah, maybe next year. Now then, what can I get you?"
"Two double Baileys, please, mate."

...
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:29, 4 replies)

BLOOD PISS VOMIT & GORE ! ! !

A few years back I went on a date with an undergraduate who worked in my office over the summer named Zoe. Nice girl. There was also an element of danger attached to Zoe because she was the company owners daughter. My line manager, seeing the abject flirtatious behaviour between Zoe and I, even pulled me to one side and said: "Don't.... Just don't!!!" Which just made me want to even more. (I'm a bit of a twat like that).

Zoe asked if I fancied going to the pub after work one balmy summers day... and for the next few hours I sat at my desk with twitchy cock syndrome, watching the clock.

We ended up in a rather famous metal pub near Camden Town tube station. A pub which was also cunningly close to my love shack, where I was planning to take this girl later after I'd plied her with alcohol - the one and only, tried and trusted love lubrication.

Things were going well.

I felt a bit of a dick sitting there in my starched white office shirt, but I had taken my tie off so was mixing it up with the metallers quite well, I thought. The rounds were stacking up, the time was flying, and I was doing what I always do when I try and chat up a girl:

Attempt to be witty and funny and slip seemlessly into the conversation somewhere the fact that I'm hung like a wooly mammoth.

"Zoe, did you know I'm hung like a wooly mammoth?" I slurred. I must've been about five or six pints into the session by then.

Zoe laughed - thank fuck - and went to get another round in. This girl could drink!

Now, I don't know about you, but I've got this weird thing when I'm in a pub with a girl and I'm trying to impress her... I just don't go to the toilet. Somehow I don't think its gonna help the sexy cause if I'm constantly getting up to sway to the gents for a slash. I'd rather sit there with my bladder swelling to the size of a small Eastern European country before I have to go and release the pressure.

The pub was pretty quiet for a Friday night, it was a hot day and people must've been doing the beer garden thing instead. So, while Zoe waited for service at the bar I decided to slink off and empty my bladder, which must've constituted half my bodyweight by this time.

When I stand I realise I'm really pretty pissed by now, I stagger a bit and find the bogs. Push open the door and-

-GET HIT IN THE FUCKING FACE BY A SPEEDING FUCKING FREIGHT TRAIN !!!

Well, that's what it felt like.

I had to piece together what happened after the event. Some bright fucking spark had rammed a load of toilet paper into the floor - level urinals that lined one wall, blocking the drain and causing the pub toilets to flood with about an inch of piss water. I must've taken a couple of steps into the toilet in my ever-so-sensible work shoes which had absolutely no fucking grip at all, skidded on the translucent pool, and somehow twatted my face against the sink on the way down, knocking myself out stone cold.

....

I was woken by a strange sensation...

...in my mouth.

A trickling, cold, chemical taste was flicking against my tongue and lapping at the back of my throat. My head hurt like fuck and I had a strange awareness of being... wet... and cold.

Suddenly, as consciousness flooded back, I sat bolt upright and proptly projectile vomitted, Exorcist-style, all over my shirt, trousers, and right down to my shiny black shoes.

Apparently drinking strangers piss has this effect on a person.

Reaching out a hand, I used the sink to help clamber upright and I took a look at myself in the mirror.

Sweet-mother-of-holy-fucking-fuck!

I was a fucking mess...

Blood was pouring out of a gash in my head and the front of my lovely clean white shirt had turned red with blood. I had lumps of brown beer vomit crusted to my nose, mouth, down my chin, and also - oddly - in my hair.

Oh, and then I noticed that I had also pissed myself...

I washed my face off a bit, grabbed some paper towels and started scrubbing at my shirt and pissy trousers. I suddenly remembered the potential shag, Zoe, who must've been wondering where the hell her date had fucked off to.

Fuck!!!

I scrubbed harder. I even emptied the soap dispenser, squirting loads of the cheap smelling pub soap into the palm of my hand and smearing it over the front of my shirt and trousers, working it into a whitish, brownish, yellowy pink paste of detergent, vomit, piss, and blood.

Regarding myself in the mirror, I realised I looked like some kind of fucking satanic snowman.

It was not a good look.

I started to panic now. I thought: If I can just get Zoe back to mine, I can rush up to the bathroom, have a quick shower, and get on with some well earned fucking.

I think I must've been concussed.

A young metaller wandered into the toilet. Took one look at me, his eyes wide with horror, and fucked off. I must've looked an awful lot like Eddie on his Iron Maiden t-shirt.

Eventually, after a bit more scrubbing, I admitted defeat... and ambled back out to the pub. By this time I was quietly sobbing to myself, a trail of snot and tears mixing with the blood and vomit that I'd managed to smear round my face.

Zoe saw me and her eyes widened...

Well... She did go back to mine that night. Well, she walked me back to mine to make sure I was ok.

But the closest I got to a wet gash was cleaning up the fucking cut on my forehead...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:04, 2 replies)

Naked in the club
I worked for several years in small, knackered nightclub that had delusions of grandeur purely because it was pretty much the only place open later than 12 in the town.

I was the cocky barman that knew it all purely because i could spin a bottle on my hand (that was actually it, I couldn’t throw it, catch it, roll it round my neck or anything good but if one handed spinning was your thing then I was the man)

It was the night before my 21st birthday and in return for getting my birthday night off work I had to work the night before which meant strictly speaking at midnight it was then my birthday.

Unfortunately this occurrence had got round to all of the staff (probably because I told them and anyone else that would listen) which meant at midnight the two biggest doorman working that night promptly walked onto the bar, literally lifted me up and carried me to the dance floor where some space was made in the throng of people.

At this point the DJ cut the music and announced that the 1st person to strip me naked would get a free bottle of bubbly (cider in a big bottle)

I was leapt upon

As my arms were pinned by the doorman I had absolutely no chance and soon 2 particularly determined women fought the others off and managed to get little Tommy out flapping in the air conditioning.

I returned to the bar with my trousers finally back up and my ego very much reduced although this was only a temporary state as a rather nice lady gave me her number immediately after. Obviously liked what she saw!

Randomly about a year later after I had started Uni 60 miles away I was chatting to someone who happened to describe the whole exact story to me. I just smiled and pretended I hadn’t heard of the club and yes that must have been pretty funny.
(groovytommy, Thu 12 Feb 2009, 11:19, 3 replies)

The moths flew out of my wallet,
and I looked up at the barman, who was looking at me in pity. Grimacing, I turned away and decided to nurse what was left of my ale. The overcrowded bar smelled of cigarettes, spilled beers, body sweat and the faint trace of a woman's perfume. The taste was acrid at the back of my throat. The noise of everyone laughing and talking and joking was almost too much to bear, a dull roar I couldn't focus enough on to listen to any one conversation out of the dozens that were going on around me.

I raised my glass to my lips and sipped slowly, closing my eyes momentarily before opening them and letting my head hang forward to stare at my hand wrapped protectively around my ale.

"Two Strongbows please" said a soft voice over to the right from me. I concentrated on what was left of my ale, watching the bubbles on the head of the beer slowly rise from the bottom of the glass to the top, bursting at the top with a fizz that was inaudible in the noisy pub.
A glass of cider was pushed in front of my line of vision. I looked up blearily and saw the barman nod at a girl who was looking at me with an odd expression on her face.

I tried to figure it out. She was smiling, but it wasn't the smile of someone who was enjoying themselves - it was more like she saw straight through me, to the deepest corners of my mind, where the darkest parts of myself were struggling to break free and consume me.
Like she suddenly knew everything about me - but still wanted to do something to brighten my day.

I hated it. Resented it. I wasn't a charity case. I felt anger flare briefly inside me, yet it died instantly when I looked at her eyes. Her beautiful, gray eyes. They were worn and tired, and looked like they were brimming with secrets, things she wanted to say - but never could. There was an incredible amount of sadness behind those eyes.

I suddenly understood the reason behind the cider. Something of myself I could see in her eyes, and I knew she could see something of herself in mine.
I raised my glass, toasted her, watched as she did the same, and then we slowly quaffed from the glasses, and I felt the ice cold cider slip down my throat. Throughout, her eyes never left mine. I couldn't notice anything but her eyes, not her pale skin, rounded face, thick blond hair. They were all just blurred into the background.

I finished my drink and stood up. Slowly, I walked carefully over to her. Aware that there were people around me, and that the barman was watching our silent exchange out of the corner of his eye, I simply lent down and let my lips brush against hers for the briefest of moments, feeling the warmth of her hand sinking into my waist where she'd placed it, smelling the scent of her perfume. Roses, I thought, or maybe freesias.

I straightened, looked at her, felt a hot stinging in my eyes before walking out of the bar into the cool air outside to sink against the wall of the pub. I closed my eyes and felt a small, fine hand slip into mine and smelt the scent of her perfume on the air.

"Thank you." I breathed, squeezing her hand.

This is the first time I've ever done this....so I'm sorry if it's not good enough :(
(Poppet some assembly required., Sun 8 Feb 2009, 12:06, 12 replies)

now THIS is dedication to the cause
some aussie guys i knew were going out for a works meal then hitting the walkabout for a spot of booze and slag-fondling. i met up wit hthem after the meal.. they left early because one of them had overdone the red wine, leaned back, yacked up a lake of half-digested pasta, and just walked out leaving a restaurant full of horrified staff and coworkers. he was still up for drinking though!
the second aussie guy was seemingly a lot more chipper. we got in to the walkabout, got him some beers, (this is summer so shorts weather= this is important to remember)
he started chatting up this girl, seemed to be making good headway. then disaster struck.
he tells me he tried to sneak out a fart, thinking as you do that in a crowd it would be easy to pass the blame.

what happened was about a pint of molten arse-lava came boiling out of his arse like old faithful, and poured out of his beige-coloured shorts onto the dance floor. he uttered the now immortal line
' sorry love, i'll be right back, i think i've shit meself!
and waddles out of the club, stinking like a dead dog on a hot day.

the fucker walked the mile or so home as no taxi would touch him, showered, changed, sauntered back in to the club an hour later, AND STARTED CHATTING UP THE SAME GIRL AGAIN!!!!

hats off to ya mate, wherever you are now, you're a fucking LEGEND.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 8:58, 3 replies)