Two Paedophiles walk into a pub
they didn't think that through...
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:10, 2 replies)

a man with an alligator
walks into pub and asks the barman "do you serve traffic wardens?" "yes" replied the barman. "great" said the man "i'll have a pint of lager and my friend here will have a traffic warden"
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:01, Reply)

Herr Doktor has reminded me
I was in the Cavern in Exeter, supping a beer when across the room I noticed smoke starting to billow from the bottom of some chap's jeans.

After laughing for a second it became apparent that there was a glowing circle on the bottom of this guys trouser leg, currently the size of my fist and expanding...

I jumped up, scampered over to him and delighted myself by saying "Excuse me, but you appear to be on fire"

The guy then looked down, looked back at me and gave me the filthiest evil look you could possibly imagine. No word of thanks or anything.

Me: "Next time you can just fucking burn then"

That guy was a twat.
( Vipros. clever got me this far, then tricky got me in, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 12:56, Reply)

Jeans do burn!
A few years ago I used to go out drinking with the staff at my local Games workshop on Saturday nights after they closed the shop. One day another of my mates came in after painting at work all day, he stank of turps but none of us cared, the pub wasn’t that nice smelling at the best of times anyway.

So he gets a beer, sits down and lights a cigarette. A bit of the mach head falls off and lands in his lap igniting the turps soaked jeans.

The look on his face was classic, he kept looking at his pint, his hand, and his flaming balls, wondering which to use to put the fire out. In the end he started whacking his nads with his empty hand.

Eventually he managed to put the flames out, and after us all having a long laugh at him and finishing our beers he decided to get the next round.

He stood up, took two steps towards the bar and his jeans fell apart! Now he never wore any kind of underwear so he was standing there in a crowded pub on a Saturday night with his manhood on show to all. He calmly walked to the bar and asked for a towel, and for a laugh the barstaff gave him a bar towel.

He stayed the entire night calmly walking about the bar with this bar towel covering himself, he even bought more beers for everybody, he really didn’t care.

At the end of the night the landlord gave him a lift home just so that he wouldn't be arrested by the police for exposing himself.
(Herr Doktor Lemminge Is bored, so cheer me up!, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 12:45, 2 replies)

100% fact
Chuck Norris and Mr. T walk into a bar. The bar was instantly destroyed as that level of awesome cannot be contained within one building.
( MatJ LOOK, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 12:44, 6 replies)

a man with a monkey
walks into a pub. the monkey goes over to the pool table and eats a pool ball. the barman asks "why did he do that?" "oh he will eat anything" says the man.

a few days later the man and the monkey go back into the same pub, the monkey picks up a peanut off the floor, sticks it up its ass then pulls it out and eats it. "why did he do that?" the barman asks again. the man says "well he will still eat anything but after that pool ball he checks to see if it will fit first"
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 12:42, Reply)

Stag do
Stayed at a hotel/Pub in Blackpool for my stag do. I was royally pissed but managed to get off fairly lightly on the stag do pranks front. (I was stripped naked and photos taken if you must know).

The other stag staying in the hotel didn't get off so lucky. His so called friends waited till he passed out and superglued his eyelids shut! After he and his best man were whisked away to hospital everyone carried on drinking.
Bet he would have been glad to wake up naked on a train in Glasgow central!
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 12:33, Reply)

I am officially the most boring person in the world...
...and this was proven down my local on Saturday night.

I live in a little Somerset village that has basically been cut off from the outside world for the past week due to the snow (we made the national news, W/Y/H!). Anyhoo, I spent last week housebound and by Saturday night I was starting to suffer from cabin fever, so I donned many layers of clothes and like Captain Oats trudged out into the snow, "I may be some time...because i'm going down the pub".

I managed to get to my local without falling down a crevice but we lost five good men and a team of dogs when an ice storm hit as we traversed a pressure ridge in the ice pack...err...car park. My heart sank as I entered the premises, it was empty, not one customer, just me, the miserable landlord and his fat miserable wife who took one withering look at me and fucked off (Cruel World 1 : My Ego 0).

It would have been rude to walk out so I bought a pint and started chatting to the landlord who promptly rolled a fag and went outside (Cruel World 2 : My Ego 0). So there I was, standing like a twat on my own in an empty pub, nursing a pint (did I mention feeling like a twat) when one of the few young women in the village stuck her round the back door, whispered, "Are you the only one in here?" I nodded, she mouthed the word "Sorry" and disappeared into the night (Cruel World 3 : My Ego 0).

The landlord seemed to be taking a long time to smoke his poxy little roll-up so I wandered over to the pool room and there he was playing the fruit machine, HIS fruit machine with his fat miserable wife (Cruel World 4 : My Ego 0). I thanked them for a wonderful evening and braced myself for the icy windswept journey to the next pub.

So there you have it. I am officially the most boring person in the world, landlords would rather play their own fruit machines than talk to me and young women run away at the sight of me. So at the end of play I believe the final score is Cruel World 4 : My Ego nil, but wait, in the last seconds of extra time you have just realised that you will never get back the last few minutes of your life wasted reading this drivel and a late goal seals My Egos thrashing. On the final whistle it's Cruel World 5 : My Ego nil...surely the fans will not stand for this travesty...
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:50, 11 replies)

I attract weirdos
Just last week I had the following conversation with a staggering, limping specimen whilst stood outside the pub having a fag:

Him: Number 9. Number 9. Where?

Me: . . . right . . .

Him: Number 9. Drogue. Art Attack. Where is it?

Me: (massive question mark in bubble above head). . . right? . . .

Him: Number 9. Number 9. (Starts drawing an imaginary "9" in the air.) Number 9! NUMBER 9!

Me: Er . . . I'm not sure, to be honest, mate. Sorry.

Him: (walks away) Alright, Mate, alright. Cheers, mate.

Me: (massive "WTF?" appears in bubble above head)
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:50, Reply)

Norfolk's answer to the Yeti
I have run pubs with Mr WoodKat for many a year now, and truly the most worthy person to be spoken of here must be one of my old locals. We shall call him Bernie (for that is his name). Now, even Bernie's wife had difficulty understanding Bernie's massively broad Norfolk ramblings, and this was only massively pronounced when Bernie drank. Which he likes to do. Lots. Bernie on one fateful summer's evening after 16 pints of Woodforde's Nelson's Revenge decided to headbutt the concrete pillar outside (not literally; as in having not seen it and tripping over it in his hops fuelled state)
Bernie, being an outdoorsy type of grounds keeper/builder type of man seemed not to mind the several pints of blood which were now pissing down his head and all over several of my staff members and regulars as we desperately tried to persuade Bernie to sit down until the ambulance arrived. He would have none of this until I brought a pint pot of ale out of the pub and told him he could only have it if he sat down. Which he done immediately, like a trained dog. Legend.
(woodkat loves comic sans, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:44, Reply)

Sideways
This was back in my dim and very distant youth, 1981 I think. Me and a mate were working our way through the pubs in chatham. And chatting with two girls in the Jolly Caulkers. One of them oriental. I went of to the loo. and on my return they had left. I asked Dave where they had gone. Sheepishly he replied......

" I asked her if it went sideways"
(Pill Popper Thank you Sasha Shulgin, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:33, Reply)

STEVE!!!
One of the "characters" at my local used to be a guy called Steve. Now Steve was a little "special". He had a somewhat unhealthy obsession with the Spice Girls, and with Emma Bunton in particular.

Blessed with an undeserved and unwavering sense of self-belief, he would wander the pub in his best red baseball cap, a simple-minded leer upon his face and attempt to chat up every single woman within sight. If you weren't quick on your feet he would collar you, upon which the following would ensue:

Steve: Alright?

Me: (sigh) Alright, Steve?

Steve: . . . Spice Girls!

Me: Right.

Steve: . . . Spice Girls!

Me: Uh huh.

Steve: You know that Emma Bunton?

Me: Yeah . . .

Steve: She's my girlfriend.

Me: Oh yeah?

Steve: . . . Spice Girls!

Me: Right. Ok, Steve . . .

Steve: We're like the Spice Boys!

Me: . . .

Steve: You and me! Spice Boys!

Me: !!!

Steve: Spice Boys!

Me: Ok Steve, gotta go. See you around, mate.

Steve: SPICE BOYS!
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:32, 4 replies)

Silent punch up
Ive seen some bizzare scuffles in pubs in my time but what I saw in one of Waterloo station's pubs about 10 years ago really takes the Huntley and Palmers...
I was waiting for a girlfriend to come back from a trip away with her posh kids Army cadets-the OTC- I decided to have a few to fight off the boredom..
So yours truly sits down with the paper and a pint of Red Stripe noticing the large group of rather inbriated teenagers swarming the place..
The aforementioned teens became more and more pissed and lairy but there was something about them I really couldnt fathom..something about their rowdiness that I couldnt put my finger on..soon a fight broke out and it was quietest fight id ever seen...no shouting, no swearing, no threats, no bravado...it was only when the Plod turned up and arrested them all that I found out why this fight had seemed so odd..on questioning the Plod about who they were I was told:'they're all deaf and mute mate..cant you see their hearing aids?'

....which explained the complete silence during the fight and its build up
( bigmeuprudeboy is using powerpoint or paint...have MERCY, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:27, 1 reply)

Another one
An orc walks into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder, the bartender says "Where did you get that?".

The parrot says "Durotar! They've got them all over the place!"

/geek
/coat
(ldwater otherwise known as a 'jive turkey', Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:11, 3 replies)

2 goths walk into a bar....
ok, so it was one goth and one very dear old lady. (me beloved grandmother)
so, we walk into this bar already both rather inhebriated, as we did this every monday and had done for 6 months. only this particular monday, we had met one of my grandmothers friends. we had, as a group, chosen to venture to a pub we did not usually frequent.
we walked through the doors and entered the main lounge where mainly elderly men sat, you know the types, with that stench of ale and park drive cigarettes. we approach the bar, as is customary in pubs.
its my round so i delve into my pocket, produce some money and say "half a larger, half of mild and half of bitter please" to the barkeeper, who clearly has some kind of condition. his arm fell limply by his side and he was only about 4foot tall. he looked like he had just walked off the set to Night Of The Living Dead. his eyes buldging behind is massive glasses.
to which the barkeep replies "we dont serve your type in here"
bemused, gob smacked i look at my grandmother. i stand there weighing in at 8 stone nothing, with my backcombed purple and green death hawk of hair, in my all black etire, aged only 18.

To this my grandmother replies "a half of larger a half of mild and a half of bitter"
and again, service was declined.
at which point, its fair to say my grandmother flipped, i had never seen the woman who used to feed me on a diet of cake and ribina milkshake (yes YUK) act in such a way.
She started by swearing, ALOT. this was followed by comments like "I dont know how a man who cant move his head from a fecking 30degree angle can refuse survice to anybody. You look like a zombie" and with this she sauntered from the pub. while shouting "maybe you have epilepsy, if i turn the light on and off enough, maybe will you show us how to jitterbug?!" i left trotting closely behind her. *sighs*
i know, i know, you all want to know more about the ribina milkshake... but eh. Go try it for yourselves. WARNING dont give it to kids, its vomit inducing.

ok, i have been informed i must say more, about the ribina.. now you use sterilized milk... AND its a taste you will never forget. though you will want to... ^__^ enjoy
(samurai_beth, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:10, 3 replies)

Rubbish Pubs...
...I've known a few.

Why do they ALWAYS have at least one regular with a massive birthmark covering half his face?

The Jolly Sailor in Canterbury had its quota and was also the only pub in the town that served 'The Champ' - a mad old drunk man barred by all other pubs and (more worryingly) cab firms. He'd infamously stood at the bar at The Dolphin, shit himself, poo had run down and out his trouser leg, only for him to carry on drinking - hence the name Champ.

The Old Monkey in Manchester smells like death and is full of old drunk old men from 12 onwards asking you if you've "come here to get pissed". Yes, yes we have.

Also, The Old Bell in Kilburn has a French barmaid who is easily confused. The last two Sundays, busy for the football, she's only charged me for 2 of the 9 pints of Guinness I've enjoyed.
(grandwizard68, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:03, 2 replies)

Mixed Doubles
In deepest darkest rural Wales I used to play for my local in the Pool league.

Well on one trip to play a pub in the neighbouring village we all file in and head for the pool table to see how the land lies, which way the table leans, how many beer stains, crisp crumbs, etc.

The boys at the front all go quiet and as the rest of us spread out into the room we are presented with a view of the local bike, (the paid variety) being "re-inflated" by some bloke..

After much ahemm'ing and some jostling for position we go back into the bar, fair play though the bloke got his money worth and took so long we had eaten the usual post match sandwiches before he came out.

Funny match too watching some of the boys working their way round the now more questionable of stains, (pussyfooting seems appropriate).

Length - she seemed to like it!!
(sproutout Aardvarks you gotta love 'em, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 11:01, 1 reply)

The Eccles Cake
Named after local hack, John Eccles, who, after a day on the strong cider proceeded to shit himself and shake the deposit out of his trouser leg onto the bathroom floor before walking back up to the bar and ordering another pint of Black Rat.
( monkeyboyalpha jumping on the bandwagon since, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 10:51, 2 replies)

Christmas freebies
A couple of Christmases ago, having wandered into town to see who was about and what was happening, I found myself drinking with a girl who'd been in my year at school, and her friend who had been a year below. We did a round of the pubs and bars until, at around 11:30, we found ourselves in a fairly recently-opened place.

The lighting was low, the heating just a touch below warm, and the punters were elsewhere. Aside from the barman, we were the only people there. Given that everywhere else was rammed, and my hometown at the time had almost as many pubs as people, this was unexpected. Still, we took advantage of the fact that we could get a seat, and went to order drinks.

"Look," said the barman, "I've had enough of this. Since it's Christmas, you can have these on the house. But I'm bored, so could you drink them quickly so I can go home?"

So we did.

Not long after, the bar closed. That was less surprising than the discovery that it had been some kind of front for gang activity - but only a touch less.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 10:24, Reply)

Health Benefits of Beer
I work in a bar in town, where the clientele come from all sections of society - we have regulars who range from psychiatrists and accountants to postmen and the unemployed. It's a nice place though, and everyone gets on well and are on first name terms with each other. Two guys in particular are relevant to this story - they are *VERY* regulars, always sitting at the bar, and usually talking idiotic shite all night long. One time, however, one of them - let’s call him Cliff, for that is his name - came out with these words of wisdom about the benefits of beer:
'Well you see, Norm, it's like this . . . A herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. And when the heard is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. But naturally, it attacks the slowest and weakest brain cells first. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. And that, Norm, is why you always feel smarter after a few beers.'
(Mystery_Machine, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 10:19, 4 replies)

Brummie slags
Out in brum t'other weekend, we stumbled on a quiet pub near the Mailbox. The only punters were a gaggle of twenty-something, erm, slags. But really really fit dirty ones, short skirts, fake tan and big tits so its OK to call them slags. Us 4 lads couldnt believe our luck. They were half cut and when we walked in we didnt get blanked. Bingo.

We inserted ourselves strategically amongst them and everyone hit it off quite nicely, nothing serious, just some flirty fun and did I mention they were fit. (yes i know i'm talking like i'm 18 but it doesnt happen to me often).

So about an hour of this, and discussions are heading toward that 'shall we all go somewhere else' vibe - and the anticipation is peaking. Rog stumbles off muttering something about a fag and a piss - and the true test of any fit slag is that this sort of male unpleasantness shouldnt register - and it doesnt.

Rog seems to be taking his time. After a while, we become slightly concerned and glances are passed between us. It takes a minute before Ste realises. 2 milliseconds later we read the panic on his face.

Rog has gone to the jukebox.

Now Rog knows he isnt allowed near a jukebox on any occasion. Certainly not now. Rog has started actual, proper fights, wars, terrorist and asthma attacks after plundering the jukey. We all instinctively know that we're fucked.

Just as we're about to go and find him, he ambles round the corner, unlit fag, smiling mischeviously. The jukey kicks in; The White Stripes, one of the slags nods appreciatively, "nysh one mate". We all breathe a sigh of relief, the slags unaware of the horrible moment, and normality is restored. Hands surreptitiously placed on thighs have unconsciously relaxed. Girls knees are still occasionally brushing ever so slightly against groins.

The White Stripes gives way to November Rain, and the slags sing along with the vocals and one even does air guitar. The atmosphere is happy, and slightly sozzled, everyone is laughing. Rog has gone quiet.

There is an ominous pause in the music and the banter at the end of Guns and Roses, and for a moment the rain sound effects in the song make us all feel slightly warm, as if we're sheltering from the storm, and the crackling of the pub fire adds to the moment. For a seconds I realise that these are the nights that makes you feel great to be alive. Nothing can harsh my mellow now.

Roger's third choice on the jukey shatters into the bar.

"TELLYTUBBIES SAY EH-OH TELLYTUBBIES EH-OH" blares out loudly.

It really did fuck up the evening. One of the slags got annoyed and tried to twat Rog as up until then she'd been enjoying the closing hour songs, and knocking over Ste's pint in the process, drenching another girls skirt and barely clad legs. Everything descends.

Us boys ended up back in our apartment, huddled over doner kebabs talking loudly about how we pretty much definitely pulled and how it was all Rog's fault and then we were all tired and everyone drifted off to their rooms and to sleep.

Not me though, I texted the slags and they snuck in to my room and I had a fivesome. Actually, come to think of it, that might have only been in my head.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 10:14, Reply)

was in the pub the other night
talking to a young lady, "whats your name?" i asked "carmen" she said "it used to be sue but i changed it because i love cars an men. whats you name?" i thought for a moment, "beersex" was my reply
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 9:22, Reply)

After seeing Barry Shitpeas' post...
We made the following when in Dublin for a weekend:



After the obligatory pint balance we topped it off as well



We'd have gone taller if there were more beer mats...

length? isn't height more appropriate? About 2 ft...
( notmyrealname, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 9:08, 4 replies)

Elephant walks into a pub right...
Not so much my local as a good pub story (I was too young @ the time).
Circus came to Mt. Isa, North Queensland. Carnies and local japes decided it would be good PR to get the circus elephant into the pub for a beer on Friday night. They got it halfway into the side door & gave it several Darwin Stubbies (VERY big bottles of Northern Territory Beer).
Said elephant left many "PC-incorrect-umbrella-stand" sized holes in the floor and side of bar then went on a pissed rampage down the main street.
Was eventually subdued with a kebab and a cab ride back home.
True story & fortunately not the most astounding thing to happen in town that week.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Mon 9 Feb 2009, 6:34, 1 reply)

Sid James
walks into a bra...
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 6:22, 1 reply)

How much wood...
Canada, a fair few years back. I've got family over there, so I save up my pennies and head over to see them after I leave school.
Now, these relatives live in the suburbs of a quiet little town which , in England, would count as the arse-end of the middle of nowhere. Course, out there it's positively buzzing compared to some places you can get hold of.

Anyway, 18 years old and thirsty for a pint, I wander away from my adult supervision for a night to see what the town has to offer. Spying a tavern, of sorts, I pop in and stride up to bar.
"Beer, please, mi'duck." says the East Midland's blood coarsing through my veins.
"Sorry, have you got any I.D?"
"That I 'ave." says me, holding my passport for all and sundry to gawp at. My newly found legalism proudly emblazoned onto it's pages, I felt sure of a pint.
"Sorry, but I can't serve you." Comes the reply.

My brain, jet lagged and beer thirsty, came up with hundreds of possible excuses, arguments, and even misunderstandings that could have led to that answer.
Unfortunately, the only one to reach my lips was a, more aggressive than planned, "You wot?"

Cue silence from the bar's inhabitants. Accusing stares, mutterings of "He's a Brit", I knew what was coming next.
Hands in my pockets, shoulders slumped, I turn and head for the door when an ominous growl starts from my right.
"Uh-oh, you didn't upset so-and-so did you, son?" Booms from the same direction as the growl.

I didn't have to turn to know the guy was big, but when I did I had to double take.
Knuckles to the floor, hands like coal shovels, this was the original man with no neck.
Intimidating as that was, the source of the growl was now in view.
Dog? Nah, this thing had no dog anywhere near it. This was the biggest, purest wolf I had ever laid eyes on.

I start to stammer something resembling "No trouble, chief.", the only thought in my head being that even if I could outrun him, the wolf would have me before I made the door.
The man mountain rumbles "Better come sit by me, and say your sorry, else Bet's here'll have you screaming it for all to hear".

I do as I'm told, sit down where I'm told, look the barmaid in the eyes and, in the quietest voice I've ever managed, said how dreadfully sorry I was.

The rumbling next to me starts up again. "Wasn't talking about her, talking about Bets".

Eyes wider than saucers, mouth drier than Ghandi's flip flops, I turn to see one giant hand pointing at she-wolf, and the other passing me what I can only describe as a fist sized hunk of cured meat.

Between finger and thumb, I drop my hand closer to the snarling the thing of nightmares.
Gentle as a mouse, she takes it from my trembling hand.

Instantly, the growling stops and a cheer resounds around the room. Suddenly, beer appeared despite the 21 year minimum.

Turns out, I was the only stranger ever that didn't do a runner as soon as the wolf started growling, and therefore was owed a beer from anyone who'd witnessed it.
And that, in a drawn out nutshell, is how I met my good friend Peter, the Lumberjack. A man who thinks the world of anyone stupid enough to put their hand anywhere near his pet's mouth, let alone while they're holding her food!
( Pointy Head poked another hole in my anorak on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 5:48, Reply)

I like my local except for one guy.
The stereotypical 'bullshitting old alcoholic'. Except that this one doesn't claim that he used to be in the SAS. He doesn't even claim that he used to be a roadie for the Rolling Stones. No, he claims that he's a famous singer right now.

A running joke in the pub is to say something like 'oh my God! You're the guy from N'Sync aren't you? I thought I recognised you' - he gets very belligerent and starts going on about how he's a real musician, none of this pop crap!

Obviously people sometimes ask him to 'give us a song then', and naturally it sounds like a rasping alcoholic.

Sometimes people ask him whether he knows anyone famous. He reckons he did, but the people he mentions are all dead or foreign - which I guess is why we never see them drinking with their old pal. He claims to have worked with Joe Strummer. He looks a bit like a really old ex-rocker, so I'd guess he was probably a fan of the Clash back in the day. Oh, and he recorded a song with Nick Cave as well.

He also claims to have a hot wife, of course. Which explains why he's never seen with any of the many groupies that follow his imaginary career.

Actually having typed all this I'm not so sure it's a funny story so much as a sad one. His real story's probably a lot more interesting than the fantasy one, but I don't suppose I'll ever hear it. Anyway I salute you, you star of alcoholic bullshitting, Shane MacGowan.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 2:19, 3 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)

A baby seal
walks into a bar and sits down. "what can i get for you?" asked the barman. "anything but a canadian club" replied the seal
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 22:33, 5 replies)