A tasty treat?
This takes place about 10 years ago in a seedy dive of a club in Bristol. I was sat with my girlfriend watching a man sat nearby who had clearly munched one too many tablets of the ecstasy variety.

To say that he was gurning would be an understatement. His face contorted from a strained rictus to pursed 'kiss-me-quick' lips to full deacon-esque belming. In the meantime, his thick eyebrows wrestled with one another like savage, twitching otters as he repeatedly wrung his sweaty hands.

His attention then fell on the brimming ashtray at his table and a glimmer of misplaced recognition crossed his battling features.
He scooped up a handful of the spent cigarette butts and squinted at them as his eyes crossed and uncrossed - trying to maintain focus. The ash fell through his fingers as he studied his prize until all of a sudden he lifted his hand in one quick movement and shoved the dog ends into his greedy, spittle-flecked cakehole.

After chewing them for a mere nanosecond, he projectile vomited noisily and copiously - covering a range of about three feet with soggy cigarette ends, bile and delightful carroty chunks. As this glorious mess was hitting the floor with thick, wet splattering sounds he leapt to his feet with his sanity seemingly restored. He took a deep, flourishing bow and then staggered backwards - clattering into the next table in a tangle of flailing limbs and curses.

It was at this juncture that my girlfriend and I decided that it would be a great time to decant ourselves to the dancefloor with a fair amount of haste.

In retrospect, I can only conclude that in his addled state, he thought that the cigarette-filled ashtray was in fact a bowl of scrumptious, salted peanuts. Wrongness has rarely been so definitively proved.

The very same night, a bedraggled young harridan propositioned in turn my friend, me and then my girlfriend to 'screw her in the bogs'.

A classy establishment it was not!
( squirrels emit silent screams has updog, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:31, 9 replies)

Spanky’s post reminds me…

It was the eighties…I was playing Elite merrily on my BBC micro like the sad nerd I was late one night when my brother kicked the bedroom door open, stumbled over to my bed, and tipped a veritable armful of ‘goodies’ all over my unofficial 'Star Wars' quilt.

This monumental payload included: ‘Olde English Cider’ beermats and beertowels, ‘Olde English Cider’ Tankard Mugs, ‘Olde English Cider’ posters and, (unless I’m very much mistaken), even an 'Olde English Cider' cuddly fucking toy.

Somewhat perplexed, I decided to question him regarding his allocation of this heavily merchandised promotional bounty.

“What the fuck?” I enquired.

Slouching, yet pushing his belly out to display his ‘Olde English Cider’ T-shirt stretched over his otherwise 'all-burgundy' outfit (complete with Farah trousers) he proudly proclaimed:

“S’mine…Ahhhh fuckin’ won nit, thasch wot!”

“Hmmm...HOW exactly, did you 'win' it?” I pressed further.

“Fuh’ bein’ thuur faschtest drrrinker in th’ Unicorn Pub!" he slurred, before continuing triumphantly: "There wasch these ‘cidurrr’ pee-pull..and they hadda-comp-a-ti-shun, see...”

“Jesus.fucking.wept” I sighed as he collapsed on the bed.

He was 16 years old.

I need some clarification here…should I feel proud, or ashamed?

(Answers on a postcard to: ‘Pooflake is jealous of his brother’s drinking prowess’ competition, PO BOX 1, Coventry)
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:19, 5 replies)

Hooray for pubs !
Being fond of the naughty falling down water I like to spend numerous evenings in the pub, where there are a few crazies...

All Have been given nicknames because I really don’t wanna know them.

Mr Tweed – Some 6’4” skinny guy with glasses and an insane massive curly quiff. He always sits alone in booths designed for 6 people with his vile tweed jacket drinking halfs with a carrier bag full of other carrier bags.

Shuffles2 – This guy is another crazy carrier bag carrier. He has a bit of a stoop when he shuffles about the place with all the speed of half a maggot. Often times he spends mooching around the beer garden looking for loose change dropped and drinking the dregs that people have left there. When he has enough loose change from the streets, he buys a plate of baked beans from the bar and then pulls up a stool thing in the middle of the pathway out of the kitchen where he eats them noisily.
One time he had a box of cigarettes and was holding them out infront of him and asking everyone of the wanted to buy them or had lost them – he didn’t come to our group tho, so dunno what he was really saying.

Lawrence – Named for the nonce interior decorator, Lawrence Llwelyn Bowen (sp). This guy is awesome. He’s pretty old and wears one of those dirty looking light brown flasher macs. Hes always getting up to wave at no-one in particular or re-arrange the chairs and tabels - even ones hes not sitting at. He also eats left over food from other peoples tables.

Monkey – This guy looks almost identical to the lead character from Monkey magic – that Japanese tale thing that was on Channel4 late at night ages ago. The only thing different about them is one is cool (the Japanese character) and the other is immensely annoying is about 50 and has a tonsure (one of those shaved crown monk’s haircuts only his is because of balding) He has tried to talk to us before, and ALWAYS minges on about the price of ale, the ales they have on tap, the ales that they have had before and indeed how to drink ales and more random bollocks about fucking ale! When not boring the shit out of people on the subject of Ale, its his allotment or the fact that pubs close at 11ish (which according to him is an utter outrage) He will stare at anyone in the seats by the fire untill they leave, then he'll take off most of his clothes and sit there with 3 pints of ale in his dirty vest.

Edited for shittiness and length
(FlangeCat, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:12, 3 replies)

"A normal night out"
We meet at a regular bar, Have a drink and realise we get on quite well. After something to eat. I quietly inform you that although this regular bar is ok. I know of a better place to go. After some gently coaxing and reassurance, I convince you to come with me to a club that is not quite your usual. We make our way to a part of town you don't normally associate with a night out, you never knew this was a club. Wondering if it's a good idea as it does look a bit rough, You decide to go in anyway and see what sort of company I keep. As we walk in I'm greeted by the usual grunts, insults, hugs, kisses and vague greetings. We eventually make our way up to the bar. I order some drinks and walk over to a table, around the table are some freakish looking people that I call my friends. As you nervously sit down you realise they may be staring at you. You look around you, the music is very loud, the club dark and a little intimidating, you think after another half an hour you may have acquired some unwanted tattoos and multiple piercings. Now you are thinking of finding the loo and climbing out of the window, but when you get there you realise to your horror there isn't a window........ should you stay? should you go? All these people are quirky, cheeky and boistrous. They seem mostly ok. You decide to give it a chance, everybody is friendly you make some friends quite quickly. You notice someone taking something, asking politely you are told "party smarties" and realise what they mean, you always wondered what they were like. your new friend says try half "only if you feel relaxed and at ease with us. Half an hour later you realise we are all wonderful, and you are the best dancer in the world. Everybody makes sure you are OK, and you stay and have an awesome night having weird conversations and watch us all get happy and dancing like nobody is watching. When you get to know these people. In the week they are just normal people going about there normal lives doing normal things living in normal houses with normal jobs. but at the weekend come alive "VERY ALIVE" welcome to a new "NORMAL" world. And next week have another "normal" night out.
(Pill Popper Thank you Sasha Shulgin, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:02, 7 replies)

Vogue and peanuts and falling in love
He first noticed that it wasn’t quite right when he was sat at their table in the pub, waiting for her to get off her mobile phone. He was idly flicking through the copy of ‘Vogue’ that she had left on the table in front, paying perhaps closer attention to the pictures of Kate Moss than he should have been.

Nevertheless, he was still surprised to have the magazine gently removed from his hands and laid, face up, closed and perfectly aligned with the edge of the table.

She hung up the phone and looked at the magazine, then at him and said ‘sorry, but you were ruining my magazine. I need to flick through each page myself while it’s fresh’

OK, he thought, that’s a bit odd. But then realised that he felt quite similarly if he wasn’t the first one to open the Sunday paper.

They talked, she ate peanuts, drank white wine. The peanuts were cupped in her hand. He looked at her, amazed at how sweet and delicate she was. Incredibly ladylike, the way she slowly picked the peanuts out of her hand one by one. It took him ages, but eventually he realised that she was always taking either one whole peanut, or two halves. The fewer peanuts she had in her hand, the slower the process became.

He watched her, her face screwed up in concentration, eventually the last peanut was gone, and she slowly emptied another handful onto her palm and started again, one by one, slowly delicately. When there were just a few left, he realised that he may as well not be there for all the focus she was giving him, and he watched, silently. She seemed totally unaware that they weren’t even talking. He noticed that there were three peanut halves in her hand. She took two, put them in her mouth and let the last, solitary half salted peanut drop to the floor.

He recalled a conversation he had had with a friend a few months earlier about how she had to eat everything in pairs. How odd numbers made her feel uncomfortable, how she attributed it to a mild version of Obsessive Compulsion Disorder.

He pictured the bathroom, where her stuff had gradually been accumulating recently. The bottles of girls potions lined up on the shelf, in descending size order from left to right. He pictured the rectangular bathmat that he had laid next to the bath haphazardly that had move to fit snugly in the corner between the bath and wall, he pictured the perfectly folded towels, the socks laid in pairs, flat over the end of his bed that she had spent what felt like hours sorting out that morning.

I guess that’s two people I know with it then, he thought while absent-mindedly, barely even aware was doing it doing it, pushing the quick of his left thumbnail down with his left forefinger, then the quick of his forefinger with the same thumb, then the middle finger, the ring finger and finally his left pinkie.

He became aware of a strange discomfort in his right hand and he repeated the process on that side, finally feeling relaxed as his right thumbnail pushed against the skin of the last finger. He touched his right ear, then his left, then he polished his glasses on his shirt tails, vaguely aware that he had only just done this, so they couldn’t possibly need cleaning.

She finished the peanuts and again, a solitary peanut half dropped to the floor and she laid the empty packet on the table. Instantly he picked it up and folded it in half length ways, rubbed it across the edge of the table, forcing the air out. He folded it again, rubbed it across the table again and started folding it at right angles, over, under, until he was left with about half an inch that he tucked delicately into the folds, leaving a perfect right angle triangle of the peanut pack. He laid it carefully on the table, and looked at her again as she tapped each finger on the table edge, one by one. She then picked up the peanut wrapper, looked at it, looked at him inquisitively.

Defensive, that was the word for how he felt under that gaze. ‘It’s just something I do’ he spluttered. ‘It looks…neater…’

She dropped it in the ashtray. He tried to resist, he really did, but he knew it was there, sitting in the ash and he had to pick it up, dust it off and lay it on the table.

‘Sorry’ he said ‘I don’t like other things in ashtrays. I can’t help feeling that they are going to catch light’

But she didn’t really hear him, she was too busy lining up the two empty wine glasses in front of her.

‘Shall we go?’ he asked, she nodded in agreement and moved away from the table. He went to pick up her magazine for her. ‘Leave it be, please, I can’t read it now’

They walked home, he was still pondering her behaviour when she slipped her arm around his waist, kissed him on the cheek, looked up at him and said ‘I was watching you tonight. I think you have OCD’.

That was three and a half years ago. That was the moment he fell in love. And now he can’t imagine life without her.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:02, 5 replies)

The lock-in
The first time I went to a pub that was a mate from uni`s local, Tiny pub middle of nowhere where he lived, run by a lttle old lady.

It was a long drive to Yorkshire on the Friday after work and I`d not quite understood "make it before eleven or you`ll miss the proper sesh"
I got there at 1030 determined to get a pint in.

There were old boys playing dominos in the corner, I was nearly expecting the hovis bit of classical music to start.

I bought into the round even though i thought I wouldn`t get full beers back, but that is what you do, and it was going slowly so I bought an extra for me and got told to slow down.

2300hrs the curtains get drawn, phew!
Midnight I`m expecting it to slow down and stop.
1am the landlady is getting tanked "come on you miserable bastards, put some music on"
2am "right lads I`ve had enough, I`m for me bed, you know where till is, drop the latch on your way out"

Around 4am we ran out of capacity and went out through the house through the front door!

She must have made a lot of money from that on trust bit, how many have I had? 3. 4? 6? oh soddit a tenner will cover it ( this at well under £1-50 a pint then).

There was one drawback, Camerons Strongarm, not for nothing was it known as strongarse, none of the multitude slept very long as the dawn chorus of sulphurous wallpaper peeling farts started seeping out of our sleeping bags crashed in the front room at about 7am, so we trouped to the village co-op and bought breakfast "makings"

Sos, egg, bacon, black pudding fine, the beans however form a nerve gas binary with the camerons yeasty primed gut that should be banned by the geneva convention. (yes "enhanced" even over the previous)




Several years on were all up for his wedding, diferent pub(s) mix strongarm and sam smiths, a brief registry office ceremony followed by a blessing/ drinkies reception in the ruins of an old abbey, that was factored in by selling it to the missus as a bit more memorable than a church blessing, but also where you could let your beer wraiths go free without the dog keeling over (i`m not sure if he was joking or serious on that bit)

The journey back was a hot summesrs day, one of our lot had wangled a works pool car with aircon for the weekend, no good, we had to sweat with windows open as the stench was unbelievable. God knows what the company valet mob thought on Monday, probably spent ages looking for the dead rat..
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 10:59, 2 replies)

We're a bit busy here love
Ok, strictly speaking this takes place outside a bar but it's damn near close enough!

When I first met my current GF we got to the point where she was going to meet a few of my mates. Now, as she lives in Leeds and I live over the other side of the Pennines so it was decided that we would get a hotel in Liverpool and have a night out there (I know a few pubs and her nan is from the Wirral so it seemed like a good idea).

I decide that instead of doing some proper research I'll ask my friend Ian about a good bar for everyone to meet, somewhere that's got some music but not too loud, where you can sit and chat and the beer is reasonably priced. I must point out that Ian is a custody assistant and at the time was working in the main nick in Liverpool so I was pretty sure he'd know the trouble places.

Ian suggests the local Yates (queens square if anyone knows it) and I concur (I know, I should have said something but he works in a nick and he lives in Liverpool, he must've known what he was doing!)

We all rock up there and the only thing Ian got right was the fact that the drinks were reasonably priced! Now this is the first time that my GF had met my friends and the usual shite scouse house is blaring away so conversation is pretty much a no go.

We end up deciding to leave and head to another bar at which point we hear:

'Fucking knobead!'

and this miniature scally runs over and attempts to hit the smallest guy in our group. Fortunately our guy gets out of there and this guy decides to have a pop at the rest of us (Who thinks like that? one of him and about 5 of us, plus 3 of us were big guys!) We manage to subdue this scally (by me sitting on him basically) and wait for the plod to arrive (who were shit!).

While all this is kicking off, my ginger mate, who is about 3 feet away from it, is accosted by a couple of reps for one of the bars who proposition him in their finest Liverpool accent:

'Eh Mate, dis bar here does a free shot with every pint! Do you want to come in?'

My ginger mate just gestures behind with a thumb and simply says:

'Sorry love, we're a bit busy here'

while I'm holding this scally down and he's punching the back of my head...

Not a great first impression for my gf, made all the worse by the fact that earlier on in the night I'd told her that I'd been coming to Liverpool through Uni and for years after and had never seen any trouble...

Me and my big mouth

Apologies for length, it's been exacerbated by the sore head I have today from spending time in the pub
(Fuckarma was masturbating into your handbag, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 10:53, 1 reply)

Pit Crew

Coors promotion night, Manchester Students Union.

Buy ten bottles, get a t shirt. Buy another ten, get a cap. Buy another ten get a Coors flag... and so on.

I remember the next day sitting in lectures with the mother of all hangovers.

I overheard two girls sat at a desk near me.

"You look tired, you ok?"

"No... I didn't get much sleep last night... The fucking Coors Formula One pit crew kept everyone awake til four singing Cotton Eyed Joe... The cunts..."
( SpankyHanky, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 10:38, Reply)

Theatres, Gay Pubs and The Welsh
A few years back I was a student in Portsmouth and was pretty heavily involved in several productions at one of the city's theatres. It became a tradition that after the last night of a run an after show party would ensue.

Normally the theatre bar would be happy to stay open for an hour or so and we would all happily quaff our drinks in a manner befitting of a group of twenty-something theatre lovvies. After they kicked us out the fun began....

The pub just round the corner was a hulking Victorian affair with two bars and a 'function room' upstairs. The function of the 'function room' was to serve alcohol to anyone who wanted it at any time of the day or night. This made it the ideal venue for an after show party. It was also one of the largest gay pubs in Portsmouth, not that we minded being aspiring thesps and all.

One of my non-theatre mates had tagged along, excited about the prospect of all night drinking session and lots of 'arty' girls with not very many straight men around. At this juncture I should explain about the friend, I shall call him Rhys for that is his name. He was a gentle giant of a bloke, 6'2, and a rugby player from the valleys of South Wales. However, tactful was one thing he most certainly was not.

The party is raging and the music booming, beverages are quaffed, the normally subdued Gill for the costume department is dry humping Trevor who does the lighting, you get the picture. Rhys looks down and sees he has nearly run out of cigarettes and in one of those rare moments in a noisy room that the music stops and no-one talks, Rhys announced in his booming Welsh baritone:

'Anthropos, do they sell fags in here?'

Cue huge, body shuddering, giggles from me and many catty looks from the bar staff and a threat from the landlady to kick us all out if we didn't behave. Turns out the bar staff thought Rhys was after a rent boy for the night! He hasn't ever lived it down.

Apologies for length, be gentle, first time etc, etc….
( Anthropos Was making beer on, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 10:16, 1 reply)

angel vaults, carmarthen
As we're arriving a bloke walks out with a bottle sticking out of his head, bleeding like a stuck pig. 'I wouldn't go in there if I was you boys', he said.
(cymrococh, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 9:53, 4 replies)

It's FLYING !!!

There's only so much enjoyment you can have dipping scampi fries in your pint until they're nice and wet, then chucking them at the ceiling where they stick and dry out and form a lovely edible artex for future generations to admire.

Years ago I used to work up in Middlesbrough, managing a toy shop. As I used to work weekends, I'd often find myself with a day off in the week and would invariably spend these days in my local boozer with a good book.

On one particular day my mate Paul visited from Coventry, so we set about getting - I think the technical term is - absolutely shitfaced. As it was a school day, we had the entire pub to ourselves. It was a hot summers day and the landlord had propped the big heavy wooden door open to let some air in.

I remember Paul and I, through some pissed up logic, had decided to commondeer the entire length of the bar and sprawl out. He was at one end and I was at the other. We'd shout over to each other occasionally and wave.

I got a round in - two JD doubles. Then I hit on a brilliant idea. Quite frankly I was far too wasted to get up and give Paul his drink, he was staring at his knees, about to collapse off his stool, and the landlord had fucked off to wash some glasses. I suddenly remembered the old Western films I'd watch when I was a kid.

"Paul!" I shouted, "Get a load of this!"

And with a flick of my wrist I sent his JD sailing down the bar, where I expected him to stop it in the style of John Wayne. Only Paul by this stage had the reflexes of a dead camel. The double JD skated down the polished bar at the speed of a bullet and took off...

...and disappeared out the open door like an alcohol-fueled UFO.

Paul and I proceeded to piss ourselves. Jokes were made about the awsome strength of my wrist.

And then a copper walked into the pub with a look of fucking thunder, holding the stubby broken base of a shot glass.

"Does this belong to you?" Plod asked.

I don't think Paul really understood the question, because he turned his head and replied:

"Ahh, Oshifer - If you want it you can keep it."

Happy days!
( SpankyHanky, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 9:47, 3 replies)

Schnapps
There was a most excellent continental bar in Hull called 'Schnapps Bar' which sold a fine selection of Belgian beers and about 40 different flavours of Schnapps.
We were in there celebrating a mate's 18th birthday and that night, they had an offer on. For every schnapps you buy, you got a ticket. Six tickets won you a T-shirt.
Four hours later, my mate left there wearing 4 t-shirts he'd won single-handedly and crawled on his hands and knees the half mile to the bus stop.
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 9:08, 3 replies)

So...
An Englishman, Scotsman and Irishman walk into a bar.

Barman looks up and says "Is this some kind of joke?"

/coat
( snee held his breath since, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 8:06, 4 replies)

the Other Side of the Bar.
The first time I saw him, we were both at a bar. I was at one end – and he at the far other.
He pulled his wallet out as the bartender watched him – and grimaced. It was evidently empty, because he half stood and put his wallet back into a worn pocket in his jeans.
He sat down and I watched him as he stared and stared at his ale. The noise was deafening but I could almost hear what he was thinking. I was probably totally wrong – but everything about him just said, “Fuck this.”

The lines on his face were of misery – I couldn’t see much in the way of a set of crows feet, or a dimple around the mouth. The hard, thinned set of his lips never changed, even as I watched him take a long draught from his glass. His hands wrapped around the glass as though it was his lifeline. His shoulders were bent forward, and his head was hanging low – as though he hated the fact he was here in this bar, but couldn’t think of a reason to leave anyway. I couldn’t see his eyes.

The bartender was suddenly in front of me. I looked over at the hunched man and my heart ached.
“Two Strongbows please.” blurted out of my mouth, as my hand jerked towards the man at the other end. The barman raised an eyebrow as I put the money on the counter, but dutifully filled two glasses, placing one in front of me, and the other in front of the man I’d indicated.
I watched at he slowly looked up at the barman, who nodded at me, and I felt my lips pull themselves into a small smile. The man’s face turned towards me in the dim light of the bar and for an instant – he was totally naked. He really was miserable. His eyes looked so defeated all I could think was I’m not alone. He’s the same.. The look of defeat changed to anger briefly before faltering. He stared at me for a long moment, before raising his glass.

I raised mine – and we toasted and drank in silence. My eyes never left his face – and although it was dim in the noisy and overcrowded bar – I’m pretty sure his eyes never left mine either. He kept drinking the cider – and when he finished, he stood up.
Tall man, I had thought. He made his way gradually through the knots of people to stand in front of me. I sat in silence – unsure of what to say.

Then his lips were on mine. They were rough, like his chin, which until then I hadn’t noticed was darkened with day old stubble, and tasted like the cider I had bought, and faintly of cigarettes and mint. His body was warm, underneath my hand, his waist was firm. He smelled like an old fashioned aftershave, with the haze of the bar somehow imbibed into his clothes, which created a musky, woody scent. Then it was over. He was the tall man again. His eyes, which I’d never noticed until now, were brown around the irises, and bloodshot in the whites, which were steadily being filled up by salty and traitorous tears.
He turned and walked out the door.

I didn’t quite realize what I was doing until my hand was on the door handle, and I was outside, the cool air caressing my skin. I looked around, and saw him leaning against the wall, eyes closed.
Quietly, I walked over and stood next to him, and slipped my hand into his, feeling the warmth from him sink into my skin.

“Thank you.” I heard him whisper.
(Poppet some assembly required., Tue 10 Feb 2009, 6:43, 11 replies)

black midget
I managed a lot of pubs in the 90's, and one fine esatablishment in Kings Cross strikes a real chord for me....Being a Kings Cross pub, we had to perfrom regular toilet checks to stop the hoardes of junkies booting up in our conveniences; in the midst of one such check, i realised that the cubicle in the womens lavvy had been occupied for quite some time; a quick shufty under the door revealed a syringe, lemon and other heroin-user paraphenalia. I banged on the door but to no avail, so i called the cops. Railway police turn up and the situation is explained. By now there is me and four Rail cops in a very small ladies toilet....After much cajoling they get the occupant to open up; turns out that it's a transexual waiting for his snippy op; so the cops arrest him and have a good laugh saying that despite being womanish (and having two thirds 'lady bits') this dude will get sent to a mans pris(on) cos he's down as a male on his birth cert...ANYWAY...while this is going on I notice that the other cubicle has also been locked for quite some time. I point this out to the rozzers who take a peek over the top of the door. "Come on out!" they say...
And that's when a tiny black midget bloke sheepishly comes out of the bog...Fuck me dead! He's wearing a false plaster cast on his arm, which the cops removed to find a large swag of cash and several balloons of smack...and so off they all go to the copshop...BLIMEY! What a night...Length? Black dwarf was about four inches...True story...honest
(catflap I went out with Nicholas Parsons, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 1:12, 2 replies)

Sort of related to the question
In that it takes place in various pubs and clubs.

I went out for a drink with a few mates on Saturday in Sunny Swindon. (For the record, I'm beginning to think that Swindon is Hotel California, i.e. you can check out any time you like but you can never leave, but thats not the point of this). For reasons unknown to me, two of them had dressed up in full camo gear. This will become important later on.

I'm a reformed alcoholic, in that I no longer drink. So this makes nights out for me very interesting, and surreal at times, because I'm now sober and actually capable of comprehending whats going on. I may not remember half the night because I have trouble forming new memories, but if something is really memorable, then I have a pretty good chance of remembering it.

So, anyway. I'm out with two mates, and about half an hour in, we meet with an old friend who I haven't seen in three years. Catching up is done, much reminiscing is to be had, and much congratulations on achievements are made (I was recently signed up to a record label, and two of my mates were moving in together, so we had stuff to celebrate), and the drink was flowing for everyone else, with me being on coke or pepsi, depending on the quality of the establishment.

It is at this point that events start to become a little surreal for me. The only other male of the group, we shall call him A, for that is his initial, is starting to get a wee bit drunk. He hadn't had much to eat all day, so he was getting pretty pissed pretty quick. He also starts making train "woo-woo" noises at this point. He disappears off to the bar, and returns about five minutes later looking ashen-faced and clutching a pitcher of WooWoo.

Turns out the reason he was ashen-faced was because he'd just been chatted up at the bar. By another man. A is very, very straight, and didn't quite know how to react to an indecent proposal, especially after ordering WooWoo and coming off camper than he intended. So he did what any man would do, and fled the scene.

After a while, we leave the pub and head over to another pub. The only note-worthy event was the fact that I thrashed the two girls, N and J, at pool, with A on my team. Despite the fact that A was having to hang on to the table to remain upright. This made me happy as I'm a really crap pool player usually.

We get bored. We move onto a club. Here's where stuff gets really, really surreal and for the benefit of anyone still reading, I'm just going to list the events in vaguely chronological order.

- A is chatted up again. This time by a woman. But said woman is a squaddie, so she's asking what regiment, etc, A is in, and then starts adjusting his clothing. A tries to fob her off onto J, but fails. Me, N and J are stood at the bar openly laughing at A's horrified expression as his new-found squaddie starts scaring him.

- A tries chatting up a nun (someone in fancy dress, not a real nun). Or at least what he can see of a nun. Said nun turns around, looking really confused at being chatted up by a man in full camo gear. A is also really confused, as said nun is a man in drag, and dressed up as a nun.

- I get accosted by a man dressed up as Superman, who alternately shouts and slurs at everyone near him. Superman shouts at me to leave his cereal alone. There is no cereal in sight.

- A attempts to dance. Did I mention that A is an ex-wrestler? In his very lubricated state now, he starts using wrestling moves on the dance floor, i.e. suplexing invisible people and such like.

- Two smurfs start slow-dancing, during Living On A Prayer. Both are male. Then one starts pole-dancing, using the other as a pole. The sight of this will never leave me.

- Going to a supposed metal club (The Furnace, if anyone knows/cares), having an alright start (Chop Suey! by System of a Down and The Perfect Drug by NIN being the hardest songs there.), which turns into a mix of those well-known metal tracks, Johnny B Goode, Rock Around The Clock, and other such classic metal tracks. I shit you not.

Those are the memorable moments of the night. Pubbing and clubbing whilst sober is fun, albeit surreal.
(Ghost Atreides enjoying incontestable health benefits on, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 0:04, Reply)

Yeah it's only vaguely relevant, but fukkit...
I don't have a side-splitting story about drunken oafs pissing on each other or glassing innocent bystanders, or public defecation. I don't have any wild tales from racist paranoid landlords or drunken ramblers. I tend to drink at home with friends. Benefits include not having to roar over ear-bleeding music, no queues for bathrooms or filthy toilets to contend with.

No, my beef is with some of the 'antics' in these stories.

Bit of background: my mum is an addiction counsellor, we're a foster family, ergo we've all seen the best and the worst addicts can do.

This QOTW is full of stories about people injuring themselves and/or others, destroying lives in some cases. And the fucktards don't seem to have realised that maybe the excessive alcohol consumption just might be in some way connected to their "legendary" mishaps. Worse than that, some of you seem to be cheering them on.

I know some of these stories are fakes, and some are grossly embellished. But I don't like the undercurrent of rationality in the responses. It seems that alcohol is an acceptable drug, if you're drunk off your tits you're just "one of the lads" or "great craic" or "a proper larf" or "a legend". If these heroic people did the same things but under a haze of ecstasy or hash, they'd be druggies, smackheads, losers.

I've seen families wracked and wrecked because of alcohol and drug abuse. It pains me to think of people encouraging others to drink far beyond their personal limits, engage in pretty risky behaviour and muck up other people along the way. Having a laugh and abusing oneself are occasionally indistinct. Is it really impossible to have a good time without going overboard?
When you talk fondly about the nutter in your local, mumbling into his pint or passing out in the jacks, don't you ever stop for a second and think about his life and how far down the shitter it might be? I say 'might', after all, he could be in the depths of alcoholism or he could be deliriously happy, in my experience it's rarely the latter.

I'm not going to read any more of this QOTW, futile I guess but it's really struck a nerve.


Peace out B3tans
(blueberrypossum wants to Jaffa your Cake, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 23:42, 13 replies)

Last summer the landlord of my local decided he was going to organise a mini music festival and get a load of bands to play through the Sunday of a Bank Holiday weekend...
One of the bands he booked was mine, Ketlafish. Since we'd not long got a new drummer, we only had about an hour of material together, which as we were one of about 4 or 5 bands wouldn't be a problem.

Come the Sunday, there is however a bit of a problem: due to one thing or another, the only band playing is Ketlafish; all the others have either pulled out or he's forgotten to confirm them.

We eventually decided that we'd play at about 7, then he'd just put a disco on for the rest of the evening.

So, 7 o'clock comes round, we run through our set of covers, originals, stuff we barely know, and stretch our set to about 65 minutes.

The last echoes of our singer's "Thank you and goodnight" are still dying when the landlord appears.

"You're not finished, are you?"
"We are, I told you we only had about an hour" I told him.
"Do it again!" he asked, in a semi-joking, semi-desperate, semi-youwillnotdenyme voice.

And so it was that we chilled out for an hour, then ran through the entire set again, in the same order. It was better than the first time, because we'd just had a practise - sadly there were about half as many people the second time.

So, that's how I've played in one of the only bands in the world that's been its own support act :)
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 23:31, 3 replies)

It tastes like what?
It was another evening down The Well, where everyone went because it was cheap and everyone went there.

My friend Oli was known for his drunken antics down there. Previous evenings had involved him; crashing a buffet that was being held in the basement of the pub and after procuring several fish fingers had proceeded to drop bits in peoples pints, drinking an ashtray, and I am pretty sure he was involved in getting another friend to add a few extra holes in a santa hat to make a rather fetching posing pouch.

After him disappearing for a while he returns, staggering up to me and my friend Will with a bottle of bud. Taking a swig he wrinkles up his nose and asks Will if he thought the bud tasted off. Will takes a sip and agrees that it does indeed taste off, "Where did you get this?" He innocently asks Oli.

"On the rim of the urinal" was the oh so casual reply

Between Will dropping the bud, desperately wiping his tongue with his hands and making eww noises Will screams "It tastes like a thousand men's genitals!"
( TGB checking Off Topic is still shit at, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 23:02, 4 replies)

Embarassment...
Yeah,My Dad went up to the Karaoke and sung almost EVERY song on there last new years. I haven't heard the end of it since....

The Romans Pub, Southwick, Brighton.
(working for a b3ta world because the world needs a giggle, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 22:51, Reply)

This isn't the choice you're looking for...
Lloyds Bar, Cardiff, 2007. Having got to the point in the evening where nobody could agree where was 'good' to go (due to differences in age/taste/sanity), we ended up in that shittest of shitholes. I, after several pints felt the need for a piss. Now, I am partial to reading the newspaper they keep by the urinal in the big glass case. As I'm having the aforementioned whazz, a member of the bar staff came in, potentially looking at my wang whilst leaning over me, unlocking the glass case and straightening the newspaper. Being in good spirits, I asked him what he was doing...to which I was told that apparently the manager of the entire chain was in to visit that night and liked things just so. I thought this to be reasonable, and so shook it off (probably less than normal)and turned round to wash my hands. I was greeted with the sight of a man, with no trousers, or pants on. He was drying (in tandem) his trousers and his crotch. I enquired to the barman whether he might like to adjust his list of priorities given the big boss was coming, the answer was 'no...he's alright, he's probably just pissed himself'. I haven't been back since.
(badgermonkey007, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 22:36, Reply)

The Counting House, Glasgow
I overheard this exchange:

*time bell rings*
Drunk Wife: Ooh, it that time already?
Bitter Man: No. It means we've won a prize for being here the longest. Drink up and get your coat...

I miss Glasgow sometimes.
(Rushy, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 22:18, Reply)

Hand Throw
I live in a quiet west country town. This town has several pubs, ranging from full o' underage chavs to quiet boozers for the elderly.

Somewhere in between was our favourite pub. It had a quiet side for the older folks and a "normal" side that was basically just a nice enough pub room. But despite it being our favourite pub, for a while we did our very best to annoy the landlord.

You see this pub had one of those internet jukeboxes. most of the time it would be playing your normal crappy pub songs, not our cup of tea but inoffensive enough.

But we, ah, we couldn't resist putting on "Hand throw" by Venetian snares. After the first few occasions, it would invariably get switched off by the landlord after the first 3 or 4 seconds. Eventually they got rid of that jukebox system altogether.

(I must admit to quite liking Venetian Snares myself, although usually I go for something a little more mellow like Shpongle...)
( laminasni isn't., Mon 9 Feb 2009, 21:29, 4 replies)

My old work
Where I used to work...

I had to stop a bloke from getting out his cock to show his friend

I had sex in the toilets and on the roof

The Lesbians used to smash glasses and shove them down the toilets so we would cut our hands when we tried to unblock them

I gave someone a blow job in the back yard then had to avoid the ugly fuck for another year

One of my favourite customers was a 50-odd year old man who looked like he should be a Politican who used to come in dressed as a school girl

Ah, good times...
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 20:48, 1 reply)

Unintended assult
A couple of years ago I was in my local having a game of pool and a few pints with a mate. At one point I felt an urgent need to take a piss.

To get to the gents toilet in this particular establishment you went through the outer door, down a short corridor and then through another door into the toilet.

I was full steam ahead down the corridor and I had my arm extended out in front of me ready to push the inner door open, when it was suddenly opened from the inside by someone else.

Im 6'3, this other chap was not much over about 5'. The palm of my outstreached hand connected with his face. My momentum caused me to push the poor chap backwards and to smack his head hard against the back wall, where he collapsed unconscious onto the floor.

When he came round, I bought him a pint.
(Lionel Tiger, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 19:57, Reply)

Northampton, stabbing capital of England
Students in Northampton were always informally advised not to go out into town on a Saturday night, because that was when the locals temporarily ceased making love to their sisters and got rat-arsed. This was always taken with a massive pinch of salt...

My housemate's friend Max was visiting us for the first time. Word of the town's reputation (claims such as that in the header, which may or may not be fictitious) had worked their way back to my housemate's social group. Max's girlfriend had got wind of these rumours, and was so nervous about him going out there that in the end he was only allowed to come up on the proviso that she came too.

We spent the day putting them at ease, persuading them that there was no danger in going into town for a couple. We got a taxi into the centre and rolled into the first bar on the strip, a split-level Lloyds. We had just got our first drinks and found a table when some shouting started at the bar. This continued, then escalated. Glass started flying. A bouncer ran up, threw open the fire exit next to us and ordered us out. Standing across the street, rudely deprived of the beverages we had paid for, we could see around forty chavs, most of them dressed for pub golf, brawling. It was like a cartoon, a cloud of dust with limbs flying out of the edges. I swear I saw someone leap over the upper-level banister and into the throng. As we walked away, three riot vans (which we later learnt were always parked just around the corner on weekends) rolled up, their windscreen barriers down, its occupants holding their batons.

We went to an off-licence and bought a crate and a fruit-based drink for the lady, then went home and spent the evening listening to the distant sirens of the town.

This Lloyds was also where I pulled a pissed pensioner at lunchtime, was sick over the aforementioned split-level bannister and won £50 in one day off Deal or No Deal on the IT-box. And I can count on one hand the amount of times I've been there.
( af632 now has an alibi for, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 19:33, Reply)

Chefs and alcohol
Friday. The end of the day. Four of us pile into my car, go and buy a lot of alcohol (Cuervo Gold, Storm, normal Smirnoff, Jagers and Redbull to wash it all down) and sit on the beach to watch the sunset.

Fuck. Cops are here. Forgot we can't drink on the beach. They made us pour the vodka out, but K (best gay Afrikaans chick ever) secreted the tequila in her voluminous bag along with one of the policemen's handcuffs. I still don't know how that one happened.

We fuck off to the pizza place down the road and order massively. A decision is reached to go to Roots (the trance club 20 minutes down the road). Off we went, the ladies swigging merrily away in the back and me driving carefully and ignoring the mysterious hand on my cock.

We go to Roots and it's shite, every dealer and whore in Cape Town is there and making a scene. So we walk down the road to another place, whereupon B (engaged friend) breaks down and admits she hates her fiance. She can't stay in the car or she'll die (bad area) so we force her out and go inside. She downs 4 Jagermeisters, grabs me, slams me against the wall and shoves half her tongue down my throat, all the while grinding our bits together.

What could I do? Turn around and leave?

...yes. That's exactly what I did. I got them all home, though.

Click "I like this" if you think I should'nt have left.
(Tiktock Beating off flamers with a shitty stick, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 19:20, Reply)

Heater
In a pub in Cambridge, probably about 1994...
Was out drinking with my mate Ken, an Irishman chemist who had a liver the size of a football. We were all a bit cold in our flat (being students and all), and Ken was eyeing up this portable propane heater that we were all standing next to.

Well, as we're walking home, about a 1/4 mile from the pub, I notice Ken is lagging behind a bit... fucker had put his coat over the heater (still burning), and walked out the door with it. At this point, he lifts it in the air and the gas bottle falls out the back - cue mass hiding behind buildings by the rest of us. Anyway, we got it home and it kept us warm for the rest of the winter. Still no fucking clue how he managed to just walk out the door with a 2' x 2' x 3' chunk of metal under his coat, with smoke coming out of it!
( BamaSS, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 18:42, 1 reply)

I want you back
Early '90s, up in Snowdonia, mountain climbing in the dead of winter. Wanting some respite from our cold tent, we wonder into the local watering hole, which was inhabited entirely by people called Barry and Llywellen, dressed in Adidas.

Cue my Australian mate James, who walks over to the Jukebox, puts "I want you back" by the Jackson Five on repeat, 10 times.

We left after the 5th time. The looks were just too much to bear. I think they followed us because next morning our bacon had been stolen from under the flysheet (or maybe it was the dog that lived on the farm where we were camping). Who knew welsh chavs like bacon so much?
( BamaSS, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 18:36, 3 replies)

Reds and yellows
When it comes to pubs, I can honestly say I've spent more time stood-up knocking balls around a felt table with a stick than I have sat down. At seventeen, free periods in school were spent developing a taste for Carlsberg and an undying thirst for playing pool.

At eighteen I was convinced by my local's pool team captain to join up. Around fifty teams, three or four hundred players in the district, and a shitload of beer every Monday night. There are plenty of stories from the multitude of pool nights, but one stands out in particular.

Now, I very rarely blow my own trumpet, so fuck it. I was good. Very good. In my second season I was Player of the Season and really at the top of my game.

Just before the start of my third season, the pub got a new table. Because each table is different, I spent a while getting the new table level with the landlord - a real miserable alcoholic old wife-beater - and spent an afternoon practising breaks, rail shots and finding the limits of the pockets.

Come Monday night, and our pool match. It's almost nine o'clock and I'm second on, two pints in - the Golden Threshold for pool.

The ref racks-up and flips. My opponent calls 'Heads' and loses. I opt to break.

I chalk my cue, check the pack, place the white and bridge my fingers over the cue on the top cushion.

I draw back, then forth, guaging the weight of my cue. Back and forth, back and forth, back and...

CA-RACK!

The reds and yellows barely move as the white flies off the leading ball and off the table, onto the ceiling, off the wall and into the landlord's full jug of John Smiths.

There's a smattering of laughter, then quickly a silence as we try to work out the landlord's reaction. He looks around the room, turns to me and says in his slurred northern drawl...
"I've never seen that before, ya daft cunt!"

He bought me pints for the rest of the night.
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Mon 9 Feb 2009, 18:16, 2 replies)