Fighting with an old, old man… and his wife.

Another pub, this time my glorious home town, (Surfer’s paradise of the Uk…ha).

The day was Christmas Eve, the place was a local members only snooker bar. I was working behind the, the clientele, all locals, were not your flash kind, not that there was even anyone wish cash to flash it in Cornwall. With it being a member’s bar, the beer was cheap. And this was reflected by the people who drank there (not one could play snooker either).

This Christmas Eve, all was happy, people were drinking and being merry, the place was busy but it wasn’t too busy. An old couple, early 70’s, were regulars and had a reputation for being rip off merchants. Any opportunity to cash a duff cheque or short change you, they would. They had been warned. But they were usually Ok, unless drunk.

What with it being Christmas, everyone decided to get drunk, as early as they could. And the lovely old couple decided to get drunk too. Now, as I had plans for the evening (and of course being the consummate professional) I wasn’t drinking yet, so had a clear mind. Said old fella buys a round, two drinks, and gives me a dirty £10 note. So I give him change.

His bitter and drunk old lady takes his change and decides to tell me I’ve ripped them off, they gave me a £20. No no, you’ve been drinking all afternoon, I remember clearly it was £10, we will have to wait until we lock up to check, but I do remember clearly. Growling and swearing ensues, which annoys me, but I leave it.

Until the fella decides to talk to me about it. He probably once was big, apparently he used to wrestle too, but not so big anymore. Still, grabbing my hand for a ‘chat’ he decides to stub a cigarette out on my hand at the same time, pushing it tightly. Nice. I proceed to throw him and his drunk wife (while pushing his burning cigarette off me)

Rest of the pub sees this and once I get back into the pub after throwing them out (walking stick too, nice) one of the locals had taken it upon himself to tell everyone I had been seeing the old lady on the sly and that was the reason for the bust up. Seriously, not you could imagine how old and rancid she was, but didn’t stop the simple locals believing that. Great Christmas that was….
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 18:01, Reply)

Regulars.
Everyone knows that it's not the place or the barman that make your local so great it's the regulars. The pissed up old guys who will always keep you entertained. Here's a few at the pub where I used to work.

Des- This guy stunk and would never shut up with his tales of advice. He used to prop up the bar and get the papers for the landlady, in return he got a free pint.
The bubbled wall paper was flat where he had been leaning against it for 20 odd years.
He had his own glass which broke one day leaving him covered in lager and me in tears of laughter. He even mopped it up for me! LEGEND!

Bob- Always pissed up and had some of the worst (think cracker style) and dirtiest jokes. Much to the disgust of his wife who was sat down the bar. The sight of him trying to put his leg on the bar, he was a short-house too, after 8 pints will stay with me forever.

Trevor- He would come in and eat enough for a whole rugby team. Seriously one of the nicest guys you could meet and would buy anyone a drink. I recently heard that he had died of a massive brain tumour. Sad, but I know he enjoyed every minute of his life.

God bless regulars who make our locals what they are!
(Ginger_Whinger got in the newsletter!! =D, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:50, 1 reply)

GIBBERGIBBER
In our local pub, a man got stang off a hornet in the summer time.

I didn’t go back for ages because I don’t like hornets and I thought it might go for me next.

Also, the inside is spooky and dark and they have a scary Adams Family pinball machine.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:43, 5 replies)

Pool of Guiness
/delurks

Nobody ever believes me when I tell this story but I swear on my left nut that it's true.

I used to play pool after/during work in The Roebuck opposite the Royal Free Hospital.

I should add that I was and still am rather shite although my breaks had the power of Thor and Geoff Cape's gay love child.

On one particular occasion I fired a brutal shot whilst my friend Adele stupidly stood at the other end of the table sipping a pint of the black stuff.

The cue ball pinged off the table and sliced her pint glass clean in half leaving her holding a small Guiness filled to the brim.

Funnily enough this has never happened to me since.

/relurks
(lurkylurklurk swings more, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:34, 3 replies)

A Cyberman walks into a pub
A Cyberman walks into a pub and says,

"PINT OF STELLA OR YOU WILL BE DE-LE-TED."

The barman hastily pulls a pint of Beater for the silver giant. "W-will there be anything else... sir?"

"YES" intones the thirsty Cyberman. "I ALSO REQUIRE A STRAW."
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:20, Reply)

My letter in the Independent about the Old Blue Last
Mine's a pint

Further to your article on "Scenesters" (Extra, 14 August). I was in the Old Blue Last once, which Vice magazine described as a "real East End boozer". While I was at the bar, a fully grown man, sporting a mullet and pencil moustache, rode through the door on a Raleigh chopper and ordered a cocktail. Now that the East End is being run by trustafarians, are there any "real boozers" left?

Browser, etc
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:03, 1 reply)

My local
I was a bit dismayed to realise that I didn't have a local from whence I could regale you with stories of mirth and merriment. You see the pub closest to me is an oasis of despair in sea of council estates and terraced housing that was obviously designed by the Lego factory. It has strip lighting bright enough to cast a glow across a football pitch and still have a few lumens to spare. It's always empty and the clientèle who do pop in all wear hoodies and they don't stay long. My mates ventured in accidentally while they awaited my imminent arrival home and they informed me that they have several beer taps and none of them work. How the owner manages to afford his large mercedes benz shall remain an eternal conundrum to me.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 17:03, Reply)

A man walks into a bar
and the bartender says "we don't serve Earthlings here." It was a Mars bar.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 16:52, 3 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)

Village Pub I was only 16 at the time.
It was mid afternoon my first day in this small village in the middle of know where, time to check out the local pub. The bar was empty, no one behind the bar no customers just me. Eventually this old guy comes out from round the back of the bar and ask “what will it be?” “A pint of lager please.” So he starts poring the pint then at the same time he starts to unzip his trousers and pulls out his cock, he looks at me and says don’t worry son I just need a piss. So he did in the sink under that bar. I didn’t stay for a second pint.
(nee22 NL ExPat, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 16:10, 1 reply)

Madison Joe's - Bournemouth. Sometime in the mid 80s.
You have not lived until you have seen a fight break out amongst people in fancy dress. It still makes me choke when I recall the vision of a man wearing three-legged trousers (with his screaming girlfriend still attached) try to panel the head of a guy dressed as like-a-virgin era Madonna whilst two Scousers - who I believe were there as Torville and Dean - are trying to hold back a Freddy Starr type Hitler in Nazi uniform (with shorts)shouting "Don't get involved 'la"
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 16:00, 2 replies)

a man walks into pub
with a frog on his head, the barman says "how did that happen?" to which the frog replies "im not sure,it started as a wart on my arse and then this happened"
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 15:57, Reply)

Prince Edward walks into a gay bar.
But he only went in there to try and bum a fag.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 15:33, 10 replies)

Back behind bars...
yeah, that's me, I'm now working bars for a crust these days, back in my hometown in the midlands...I've worked in the current one for two years, and its been real, as I've posted before..

Sometimes young men are wont to forget their IDs, but their dads are usually drinking in the other bar, so we used to take them to the back corridor and get a look at their pants, if the pants were OK then they were in.. We also have a selection of characters, including the lovely **Pete, who is a big old bloke, and has been an alcoholic for years, but the only problem he causes is wet floors where punters have pissed themselves laughing at his merry jinks and tall stories. It's hard to get a big old pissed bloke to put his trousers and pants back on on a Friday night though*...

We have to keep him away from Beth. She's permanently pissed, and tried to get Pete to take her home for some old drunk lovin'. Pete was having none of it, even when she said "If I can't stand the pace, my two dog's are always more than happy to help finish you off.." Pete took up residence in the lounge after that, shaking in terror...
She's a jealous sort, so we have to keep her away from Sandra, who is a lovely woman, sociable, thoughtful, and smells as if she's hoarding dead halibut in her pants. I've got a strong stomach, but even I have to approach downwind of her, and make with the airfreshener after..
Then there's the lovely Jamie. By day, skinhead tattooed skip truck driver and drinker of many pints of stout (Not at the same time, usually) by night, he puts on a frock and heels and becomes the best drag act in the county..

I love my job, sometimes....

* I have no idea how he ended up without them, I was in the lounge for ten seconds..
** All the names are changed
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 15:28, 4 replies)

Rules are rules, I suppose
Up in London for job interviews, we popped into a pub for a bite of lunch. The place was practically empty, so we grabbed a table and had a drink while we looked at the menu. Once we'd decided what we were having I wandered back to the bar to order.

"Sorry mate" says the barman. "You have to order food through there". He pointed through an archway.

"Oh right" I said, setting off. As I went through the archway the barman picked up his order pad, and walked to the other end of the bar.

"What're you having then?" he asked, meeting me on the other side of the archway.

I looked at him, trying to see any hint of a smirk. He looked back impassively, biro poised. I peered past him down the length of the bar, trying to see if there were any regulars sitting there sniggering. Nope, the bar was empty. I could see my friend peering back at me from the other room, looking puzzled. I looked up at the sign above the bar: "Please order food here". O-kay.

I put in the food order and tried to join in with what I still hoped was a joke: "Can I order more drinks as well, or do I have to go to the bar for that?" I may even have made a jocular little noise to show I was in on it.

He adopted a baffled expression. "Yeah. You can order drinks." He modified his look to one that suggested he was carefully sizing up this potentially dangerous lunatic who thought you couldn't order drinks in a pub - possibly he was trying to remember where he'd left his saw, just in case - then went off down the other end to start pulling our pints.

I walked back through the archway reflecting that if I did happen to get the job I'd come down for, I'd probably want to find another pub to drink in.

And when the food eventually came, it was rubbish. I should have taken the hint that a pub in central London that's empty at lunchtime is probably empty for a reason. I like to think that the barman was a big part of it, but the cheese sandwiches probably helped.

I didn't get the job either. Oh well.
(richardm, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 15:16, 3 replies)

A zebra walks into a pub
and the barman says 'no way mate, you're barred.'
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 15:07, Reply)

Cockney Paul
Cockney Paul will be well-known to anyone who has frequented the two or three 'alternative' drinking establishments around the Blackburn area within the last 10 years.

He is an old biker turned alcoholic, and he is ALWAYS pissed. By which I mean I've never, ever seen him sober.

He will regail you with tales of his travels around the world, occasionally forget what he is talking about, spit all over you by accident, grab your hand and kiss it and then slur "ROCK ON!" before falling over.

What a legend.
(Half of Stephen Fry's right buttock pissed on your dog on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 14:27, 5 replies)

My dad got barred from Yates
How the hell do you accomplish that?
(teebie jeebie, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 14:23, 5 replies)

Please tip your barmaid (or barman)
Back in my teens I had a part time job in a fairly rough local pub. We had a metal implement behind the bar (I call it an implement because I can't remember its proper name - it was a metal rod with a ball on the end, designed to kill fish). That sort of place.

There were two of us worked the Friday evening shift, both female and physically alike. Small and skinny. We had a step-stool so we could reach the rarely requested whisky kept on the shelf above the optics.

Being on the skinny side meant lots of jokes about lacking what was referred to as a 'barmaid's bust'. Think Jordan. Or Pamela Anderson.

We had a tips jar at the end of the bar, and all the offers to 'have one yourself' were translated into cash and deposited for sharing out at the end of the night. There was never very much in it, until I got a bright idea, a piece of paper, a black marker and some sellotapeTM (other sticky tapes are available).

I changed the label from 'Tips' to 'The more money we put in here, the quicker we can afford the boob jobs'. Our tips tripled. Oddly, so did the Saturday shift's tips. The Saturday staff consisted of two blokes who resembled the Mitchell brothers, only a bit more butch.

When I left the pub, the sign was still there, and one or two regulars had taken to complaining that the promised boob jobs hadn't materialised. I'm not sure if they meant us or the blokes, to be honest. Nothing would surprise me in that place.

They installed CCTV to prevent the local teenagers sneaking into the snooker room to have a shag on the tables. Or potting the pink as it was known.
(TheWeeWitch hasn't been here much recently .., Mon 9 Feb 2009, 14:03, 7 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)

Sex in the toilets
Yes, so I did it in the toilets of a pub. Not my local mind you, but a pub in the London bridge area. My girlfriend at the time was absolutely insistent that we went and did it right then and there. The fact that I was there with a double date who happened to be my brother and some new girl he'd met did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm.

I felt cheap and nasty afterwards. Used for sex in a pub by my girlfriend. They say the most sensitive part of your body is your hearing when you're wanking and I think the same could be said of sex in pub toilets. Your hearing becomes acute as does your awareness of hand rail positions in the disabled loos.

This occurrence happened two further times during our two year liason. One of which resulted in some serious pain through alcoholic induced complacency. The details of which are neither suitable nor within the context of this weeks questions so I shall graciously omit them.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:59, Reply)

The landlord's boot
I worked in a pub in Dover many years ago. If for some mad reason you've ever been tempted to hang about in Dover long enough to visit one you'll know they're all pretty grim, but this one was away from the town centre and really quite nice.

The landlord was an overweight gruff old oaf with high blood pressure and gout. Despite his apparent health problems he was a force to be reckoned with; a claw hammer behind the bar was just one of a number of potential weapons kept tucked away in case of trouble. He lived above the pub with his wife and daughter. The daughter would have been about 13 at the time but she was built like a brick privy and looked like a shaved Giant Haystacks.

One night an old mate of the landlord's came in and there was a warm reunion as the two old chums who hadn't seen each other for over twenty years got slowly sloshed and recounted old navy tales.

Unseen, landlord's daughter had come down and was walking through the bar. Old chum spies her and exclaims to the whole pub: "Fuck me! Look at the state of her!"

Landlord looks to see who he's referring to, calmly picks up a nearby charity collection box made out of a HOUSE BRICK and smashes it over his mate's head. Coins and fragments of brick spill down over his head as he crumbles to the floor. Landlord puts out his cigarette, finishes his drink and gets up to leave. "He's barred" he tells us, stepping over the unconscious form.
(geekraver, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:56, 1 reply)

Rik Mayall
I ws out with a friend of mine, taking advantage of the bank holiday to drink until our faces stopped working.

The pub we were in looks like an old man's pub - dark wood and dark leather on the furniture, old looking copper cookware hanging on the walls, but it's really more aimed at the early 20s crowd.

We get a drink and sit down, and notice an oldish man at the table opposite, drinking a something-and-tonic, and smoking, which dates this story.

On closer examination it turns out to be Rik Mayall. I have to explain to my friend that actually we should leave him alone, and no he definately wouldn't appreciate it if we hit him with a copper frying pan, and really that is *just* for TV not real life, and it wouldn't be a great way to show appreciation for his work, and stop talking stop talking stop talking.

We didn't stay long.
(teebie jeebie, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:47, Reply)

J.D. Wetherspoons
Unfortunately the one night-club in this hole of a town is currently shut-down for renovations. I hope this means taking the mushy and sticky sick out of the carpet and changing the fucking record collection.

This sudden loss of night-club means the fair and young of this town migrate on Saturday ngihts to the nearest town with a nightclub. Henceforth Saturday in Wick is ghost-townish.

My friends and I, desperate for not even a decent pub, but a pub with more than nobody in it had to resort to the country-wide scourge known as J.D. Wetherspoon. We marched to the bar and I stated the round, the last drink (being mine) I decided to spice up a little. I squinted behind the bar and asked for "one of those fancy looking whiskys, with a splash of Coke" while pointing.

The barman shook his head and grimaced "that's not whisky", and skooshed not even a dribble of Coke in the glass containing the whisky-like mystery. I looked at him, and looked at my friend at the bar struggling to believe that one bartender could be such a cunt.

So I looked him in the eye, and necked the contents of the glass - this may have shocked dhim. I placed the glass down and stated "asshole" - this did shock him. And I was asked to leave the bar.

Which I did.
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:38, 7 replies)

The 3 legged mare
Hugely hung-over one day me and several of my friends hunched over the bar on a sa(turd)ay lunch. The bar was full of tourists eating and drinking. In the corner of my eye I see this dirty little Burberry coated scrote of a chav walk smack in to a traffic cone outside the front door of the pub. The nose dive was probably as impressive as the sound of the spang. I did what any self respecting citizen would have done, laugh hysterically for several minuets. Seemed there were no other self respecting citizens in that day as everyone seemed to be conserned for the little cock. A few minuets later when my laughter died down, the crowd moved a little and the ambulance arrived. I noticed that I had been laughing at an 80ish year old woman. I guess its lucky she was probably def.
(bowi555 built like a steakhouse but handles like a bistro, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:36, 1 reply)

The pub where Pigeons meet their maker
Like most people, I’ve spent a lot of time in the pub. More so in my youth… and like most people, I have loads of stories about the people I’ve met during this time. However, it was more what the bar staff, me and a few mates who’d finished uni and didn’t know what to do with our lives, got up to while working behind the pumps that tells a better story.

So me and a good mate had finished our degrees at a p*ss poor uni in a hell hole of a town (which was locally know as: Hi? Why Come?) and worked for a chain brewery under the guidance of one of the best pub landlords I’ve ever come across. One of the many stories to come out of that time was that of our little pest problem. A pest problem in that the top floor (old and disused but with access via a skylight to the rest of the pub) had around a hundred pigeons living in it. We called the Environmental Health, who suggested we should ‘take care’ of the problem ourselves.

Bit of brain scratching and a car ride later and I was the proud owner of a high powered air rifle and telescopic site. Ooh, we’ll take care of the problem alright. So for the next few weeks, while not on duty (or at least when the pub was quiet during the day) me, my fellow assistant manager, the kitchen chef, and a couple of the bar staff with a blood lust, would sit and wait for a our pray, and mercilessly pick off the little buggers. Now, I’m not a hunter, I don’t like killing things for the sake of it, yet we had a problem and were advised this was the best solution.

In the weeks, a count of 30 confirmed killed and at least twice that unconfirmed had been clocked up by all. That was until one day, after a decent long range effort (we’d scared all the birds away by now, we were just taking pot shots in the street, nice and safe I know) and one bird looked done in. so, we went to confirm it and deal with the body but none was to be found. A blood trail led away and the flighty thing had disappeared. Hummn, Ok, back to work I guess. And all was forgotten about, until the next morning, when said bird had decided to pay us a visit, (which took some walking too) and sat outside the front doors of the pub looking rather cross with us. We had to finish him off, we knew, he knew it. And seven shots later, he still didn’t look happy, and it was becoming up-close-and-personal. We didn’t like that. So he was the last. We could no longer justify our marksmen skills, and it had got messy. So the pigeons could breathe a sigh of relief and we put the gun away. But for a few weeks during the summer of 2001, pigeons in the Bucks area would know the fear of that pub…
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:25, 3 replies)

OK, a true one. No hummus.
Back story.
This was just after an RFD* in Hinckley (Alan Bray) had been attacked in his shop, robbed, tied up, soused in petrol and SET ON FIRE. He survived - just.

Many years ago (sorry Spimf) I was the proprietor of a shooting centre and an avid "Combat pistol"** competition shooter. Team night was a thursday where we'd set up courses of fire and burn ammo like there was no tomorrow.
I was an RFD at the time so I had access to some pretty interesting equipment, I also used to customise pistols for competition (trigger work, accuracy/sights/reliability etc.) and I shot regularly - like every day!

I was having a quiet post-practice pint in the pub across the road with the other members of the combat pistol team along with the reserves, about 15 guys in all - all of whom could handle guns, had licences and big bags/cases full of ordnance with them.

I went for a piss on my way out, bag on my shoulder (and a custom colt 45 national match auto in a bianchi highride back-of-hip rig under my jacket). I was accosted by one of the regulars*** who demanded I give him my bag!
I politely refused, and smirked a bit as he squared up to take it from me. What I didn't expect was a right-handed punch, aimed at my stomach. Luckily, I blocked it left handed and felled the twat with a very hard straight right.

Then I felt the searing pain in my left arm. The twat had tried to stab me and the knife was still lodged in my left arm.

The following was related to me by the rest of the guys who came out to see what all the fuss was about.

As they came out, they saw a very unhappy CP ramming a mag into the aforementioned pistol while kneeling on the twat's neck. They rugby tackled me, thinking I'd flipped and was about to "do a Ryan". Once I'd explained what had happened, by way of showing them the knife stuck in my arm, they proceeded to give my attacker a veritable shoeing.
The landlord called the police, one of my team mates called the firearms licensing officer for the area and, in a flurry of blue lights, they were there in force in what seemed like seconds.

Having explained the circumstances to the firearms licensing officer (God rest you Norman), he then proceeded to get his noddy cohorts to add to the twat's misery by continuing the shoeing. They called ambulances, made sure I got the first one and took loads of witness statements.

I ended up with lots of stitches holding tendons together (I'll show you the scar if you like), my hand taped round a heavy ball for 6 months and a year of physiotherapy.

Twat tried to take me to court for assault.

It didn't go far.



*Registered Firearms Dealer

**Before it was renamed "Practical" pistol to assuage the namby-pamby hand-knitted-tofu-wearing social worker types who took offence to the militaristic name FFS!


*** as a regular, twat KNEW we were all armed and hatched a plan to steal the guns & ammo. But who tries to take out the FIRST person leaving a pub when there's 15 or so other heavily-armed guys just waiting to come out?
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:23, 28 replies)

The adventures of steve the cheese
Steve decided to go into town and celebrate that night.
As Steve propped up the bar he wondered why the owners just didn’t get the bar fixed, this was soon off his mind though as he spotted the famous two handed couple. Now you may be wondering what was so famous about the two handed couple but it was generally down to the fact that they were very famous adult movie stars and they had two hands between them, one each to be exact.

Someone else took over propping the bar up so Steve decided he was going to go over and finally meet his heroes. Not that he’d ever seen any of their films, or video’s on the internet or video clips that he hadn’t downloaded onto his phone, or the screensaver that he didn’t have on his computer or the scrap book of pictures he didn’t have hidden under his bed but he had most certainly seen them in the paper once or twice.

As Steve approached he began to think about how you greet someone who is an amputee. Do you shake hands? What if you put out your right hand and they only have their left hand? Do you wiggle the stump? What if it’s a woman? Do you kiss the end of the stump? Do you lick the inward fold skin dimple? What is the modern day etiquette when it comes to this sort of situation?
Steve decided that he was going to play it safe and not offer a handshake.

“Horris! Dorris! I’m a big fan of yours” Steve said to the two handed couple, as those were their names.
“Its always good to meet a fan” Horris replied and outstretched his hand
Steve was relieved he had been worrying about nothing. Steve stuck out his right hand and shook hands with Horris. He couldn’t help noticing however that Horris had somewhat of a feeble handshake and was therefore a massive quivering bumder.

Steve turned to Dorris and outstretched his right hand once again. Dorris outstretched her right arm. There was no hand.
“Shit!” Steve thought to himself as he retracted his hand.
“Shit! That’s made it even worse.” Digging him deeper into a hole.
However quick as a flash Steve knew how to get out of it which is when the good old childish fake handshake came into play. As Dorris stood there with her stump outstretched, Steve lifted his hand to his face. Placed his thumb on his nose. Stuck out his tongue and then began to wiggle his fingers.
It was the perfect way of getting out of such a predicament. Even though he felt like a twat he decided he would of felt more of a twat if he’d have gone and wiggled the bloody stump (I used bloody as a swear word to add emphasis not because the hand had only been recently amputated).

As the night went on and the drinks began to flow Horris, Dorris and Steve got to know each other better and they were soon good friends. It was Horris’ round and he went to the bar to get the drinks. Steve looked over to Horris who was trying to work out how he was going to carry three drinks. Steve realised his new friend was in a bit of a dilemma so he remembered his manners and shouted over to Horris.
“Horris do you want a hand?”
“Shit!”
Horris laughed at the irony before taking Steve up on his offer.

As they stood around drinking, the live entertainment began to start and onto the stage walked a bearded, middle-aged man with a guitar. The crowd began to applaud and Steve followed suit before falling into a fit of hysterics as he looked next to him to see Horris and Dorris slapping each other’s hand to raise extra applause for the Brian Blessed look-a-like.
Horris and Dorris did not appreciate this from Steve and began to delve into a rant about the difficulties and prejudices they suffer thanks to the fact that they only have one hand each. It was at this point Steve decided his night of celebration was over and he headed for the door.

As Steve began to walk down the high street he noticed his homosexual friend, Max, walking the other way. They stopped and began talking to each other. They had always been good friends but tonight Steve noticed a funny look Max had started to do occasionally.
“I’m dying for a pint, you fancy one?” asked Max.
“Yeah, Sure where shall we go?”
“Maybe we should go to the Prince albert" Max replied with a wink.
”Sure that’s fine by me” Steve replied without a wink.
And with that settled they went to the Kings head and had a pleasant evening.
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:21, Reply)

What is it with people called Dave in pubs?
A regular in my old local back in South London was a bloke known as 'One-Eyed Dave', for obvious reasons. He had more scams going than Delboy and Arthur Daley put together.

When I first moved to where I live now, a regular in the local pub was called 'One-Armed Dave' (also known to some as 'Bandit', again for obvious reasons). Again, a bit of a chancer.

Not pub related, but proof that things come in threes - or in this case, ones - I once worked with a bloke called Dave who had an operation for testicular cancer.

Although no-one called him 'One-Bollocked Dave', at least not to his face...
(Capo, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 13:15, 3 replies)