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This is a question Pubs

Jeccy writes, "I've seen people having four-somes, fights involving spastics and genuine retarded people doing karaoke, all thanks to the invention of the common pub."

What's happened in your local then?

(, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:55)
Pages: Latest, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Look! Underwear!
Yes, I have had a profile for that long and no, I haven't said much. I'm the shy type, you see. Be gentle.

I once worked cash in hand in a pub that had the hardest reputation in town. It was aces - full of drunks, bikers, drunk bikers in ballgowns, dogs on strings - all the fun of the early nineties.

Like every town pub with a reputation it had a resident nutter or five. Terry the potman, for example, was one hundred and twelvety years old; a four-foot nothing ex-boxer who would think nothing of squaring up and punching large men full in the throat a propos of nothing.

But my story doesn't concern Terry. No, this tale relates the oddity of someone I'll refer to as "Michard Rottie" on order to save his reputation in whichever institution is currently reaping the benefits of his myriad charms.

Michard Rottie was an affable loon, given to sneaking up to the bar on hands and knees on Friday nights, all the better to pop up like a demented sock puppet in a grubby t-shirt and bellow "I love you!!" at the barmaid he fancied. Hmm. Yup. Good one.

He wasn't a man to take lightly though. Oh, no.

The people who lived in the third floor flat next to his were in the habit of making too much noise late at night. This angered our lunatic friend and after weeks of skirmishing in the lobby and shouting swears through the party wall, Michard finally snapped. Howling with inarticulate rage, he took the only sensible course of action open to him given such trying circumstances.

Which would explain why, when the police arrived, they found our dubious hero in the car park, at the business end of a very long extension lead snaking from his third floor window. Drilling holes in his neighbours car. Wearing only his pants.

They don't make 'em like that any more. I remember when this was all fields.


Length? Your mum loves it.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 19:09, 1 reply)
A borderline alcoholic welcomes a new world
I wrote this during the summer about a memorable night out. Apologies for the length, but I feel like the context is needed.


A day's work, a day's disappointment. I'm not sure how it even started. However, the night left something promising. Towards town, we headed, past a fucking large airplane that claims to be the world's largest weather vane. Down along the airport, where American snowbirds and earlier practiced to the amusement of the rooted. Along the way one of our group of five dropped his wallet. "Jeff Addison, Jeff Addison!" an old, seemingly senile, old man cried out. While we did our best to ignore him, that was indeed the name of someone among us. As his belongings were returned, we learned this old man was also wise, who held fancy positions such as a lawyer, a member of the town council, and an unemployment counsellor. As a weird twist of events, he was a student at the Engineering building at our university, which shared the same name as our dormitory. The single, memorably, parting advice he gave all of us was, "You aren't hard enough to go to 98." As we were unsure of this place he as referring to, we only continued along our own way.

That night we visited only a few places. First we visited "Coasters." It was a small town hipster bar, with way more seats than it needed on a thursday night, a stage for a absent local band, and music that was way too loud. It was there that we paid for a pitcher of beer that, despite the cute waitress, was way too cheap for our student budge. Perhaps the most memorable part of that place was the free condoms in the bathroom. With beautiful local artwork on the front they reminded us, "Just because you're from Yukon, doesn't mean you can't get Aids." Not even the most remote, cold places of the earth can protect anyone.

From there we headed from the streets, desperate to find some place cheap to remind us of home. It was then that we stumbled across 98. It seemed to be on a forgotten dead-end road of town, with rusted cars and people milling about. Outside of the door, we hesitated, unsure if we were welcome or not. An aged woman outside warned us to keep our heads down and we'll be alright. Another, a welcoming soul, told us, "It's just a bar, come on in." And so we did. There, we found a long, crowded room, full of native americans. There were absolutely no seats for the 5 of us. To show more face than going in and out, we headed to the back of the bar. We heard cat calls, "Hey N'Sync!" "What are you doing in a native bar?!" and most kindly, "Who the fuck are you guest?" At the end of our bar, we saw our most likely allies, two old white men. Would they save us from a hostile crowd? Yeah right. We turned around and the mocking waitress asked us with a wink, "Leaving so soon?" Like hell we were. There weren't any seats, and we weren't asking for the price of a pitcher.

With that, we left looking for a kinder, more gentle place. Where else could that be found, with a few pit stops, than Boston Pizza? It was there that we found better food, along with cheaper beer, than Coaster's and probably any of the other bars in Whitehorse. The waitresses were nice, if not pretty, the lighting was clean, and as if to reassure us we had two officers in a booth near by. I had to fulfill the task of the tab among us, racking up quite a bit for a night. We received helpful tips for places to stay on the way, including the natural Liard Springs.

At closing time, feeling well and finished, our pockets drained, we headed up the hill, past the Alaskan highway, back to home base. There was one last stop to be made. The clay cliffs, which we had so casually walked down the stairs of, we had to climb back up. Not being ones to take the easy route, all of us clambered up the dry dusty hillside. With no looking back attitudes, dirt under our nails and hasty grabs for seemingly anchored holds, all of us safely made it to the top. It was there where we would all find our night's rewards.

It is above the town of Whitehorse, with an incredible view of a small proud town. There, was where we knew it was time to lit our Cigars. They were purchased two weeks earlier for pricey sums of twenty dollars each in a cigar shop in Vancouver. Hoarded carefully in a back seat pocket in the van, we knew they awaited an appropriate time, a time when they were needed. It was no when else but atop a vantage point that represented the whole trip that we had taken. Superfluous words were spoken among us, as we lit all our cigars on a windswept cliff. Each puff tasted of the promised Cuban tobacco, which was savoured so much more from the place where we were. In a drunken haze, nothing spoke more to any of us than the smoke in the air that lasted so short. With our embers dying out, we quietly retreated towards sleep, inside ourselves. Barely a car passed by as we crossed the Alaskan highway. Just a few minutes later I was in the blue volkswagen van that was my nightly home. In the pitch black, with an itchy wool blanket blocking out the Yukon cold, I knew that I was in love.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 17:58, 1 reply)
The Prince Albert.
It's a small pub on a back road in Ely. It's a place where a sixty year old goes and gets called young. But it's still a laugh to go in there every now and then. Plus the owners go into my shop now and again.

Anyway, I'm going to tell you about their toilets. More so the men’s toilets, and even more so the have a chalk board over the urinals. Always has good lines written on it. This is what I've read on it.

- (In one handwriting) I love it when a plan comes together. (Under that in a different handwriting) I pity the fool that wrote the above.
- Eyes down for a wet shoe.
- Keep your eyes on the prize, and not on this message.
- Give me 15 men of steel, and I can claim back Ely in a week. (Then someone else wrote) Just give me 3 Ninja's and I can take it before daylight.

That's all I can think of right now. I'm still planning on drawing a CDC on it, but I'm worried about using the chalk.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 17:43, 3 replies)
Nothing Special
Don't we all have pub stories?

From the time my friend puked in his glass and someone else knocked it over, to the time I worked in the kitchen of one.

Still, I have trouble coming up with one that would be universally liked, especially one b3ta.

I live in Quebec, which has a drinking age of 18 and is really close to the highly populated North Eastern United States. That means for us, a bunch of binge drinking American high schoolers like to cross the border and experience their first legal pub drink.

Of course this leads to hilarious results.

One day in March my friends and I were sending off someone, so we were all drinking a lot for him. A young lad in poor shape stumbled up to our bar and dropped a note off for, "The one who chugged." Very specific, eh? This note spurned a legend that I'll recant if anyone cares, but let's just say it involves tequila shots, a pool table being stolen by dikes, cigars, a failed-threesome, coke, and the one who chugged saying "I gotta go" and splitting, simple because we were making out in the same room (With different girls, okay!)

There was this other time, although not quite as long but seemingly just as bizarre where me and two friends were all wearing our respective home team hockey sweaters and enjoying a few games when these two girls come up to us and ask if they can take a photo with us. Cue three clueless guys, "Uhhhh... I guess?" and them chipperly replying, "Don't be so enthusiastic." Any advice if this ever happens again?

And in my tradition of boring Canada specific QOTW posts, I'll just say the highlight of my times at the student bar was having a beer with Fred Penner and a packed audience at 2pm.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 17:39, 4 replies)
Probably nothing compared to most of these stories
But when working in my local for a birthday party i had the misfortune of nipping to the loo for a shit and as i was relieving myself i heard a womans voice and the undoing of a belt buckle. As i listened closer it became very VERY apparent that she was getting a good hard ramming from someone. oh how i laughed and finished dropping the kids off. It was when i came out to the bar again that i realised what was going on.

The girl in question was the girl celebtaring her 21st with her entire family and her boyfreind and their friends. however seeing that her boyfriend was still out here a quick head count meant that she had taken the guy that 5 minutes before had been sleeping at the bar.

Oh oh

it was only a matter of time before someone she knew went for a shit, heard the commotion and told the family ( i had just told the locals, we wanted some fun that night so we sat back and relaxed) The father went apeshit trying to kick down the door, the boyfrind was i tears, people were trying to console the hysterical mother, friends were fighting eachother and blaming everyone else and she refused to come out cause "all you fuckers don't understand" it carried on for another 5 mins or so by this time the hallway was packed before the guy made a run for it got caught and had to be grabbed by myself an 2 other staff as the family wanted blood. we put him into the back room got most of the troublemakers out (inc the girls who you could hear crying the whole way up the road. oh how we laughed until we came back into the back bar to see loverboy asleep again and a smell wafting from his direction. Yes ladies and gents this romeo who the birthday girl had chosen was better than her current boyfriend was now lying asleep in a chair having both shat himself and pissed his pants. Classy. i do feel sorry for the mate who had to give him a lift home.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 17:15, 4 replies)
i once had the misfortune of seeing someone plant an axe in someones skull, whats worse is they then gave him a right shoeing when he hit the deck.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:49, 2 replies)
Gay pubs R Fun >_<
I used to work for a less than stellar pub in CENTRAL london, near a STATION if anyone can guess where/what.

Some of the highlights include;

1. Discussing advantages and disadvantages of vacuum pumps with a man who made his length go from 5" to 13" using one.
2. Talking about a "Christmas Present" with the club promoter where he'd duct taped his b/f to the wall. Have you seen Scary Movie with the jism shot? Think taped to the wall, with "bits" showing.
3. S.O.P, nuff said. **EDIT** S.O.P = Streams of Piss/Pleasure, 6 hours of people enjoying pissing over one another... Threatening your manager with piss sodden trainers is a delight I hope never to repeat.
4. Served drinks over the back of 3 Oxford "students" while their "school-master" whips them with a cane to the delight of the assorted "gentlemen" behind them.
5. Had to wash blood off the floor as a "gentlemen" almost had his length bitten off when he found someone elses hand on his wallet while err... enjoying the oral attentions of said person. Was told by the ambulance he should be glad that it wasn't bitten off.

I'll come back with more when I've finished un-repressing all those memories.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:32, 7 replies)

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

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

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

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

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

Our team name?

Kurt Cobain's Colourful Carpet.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:29, 20 replies)
I used to work in a pub.
This morning I put bread in a toaster and the toaster wasn't even turned on.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:25, 3 replies)
Our landlord is a tight-arse wee shitebag
I live in a village not too far from Edinburgh.

When I moved here we had 4 places to go for a drink - 'the hotel', 'the bowling club', 'the masonic', and the boozer with a dodgy reputation known locally as 'The Flying Tumbler' (nothing to do with acrobats, and everything to do with air-launched glassware).

However, I digress. That was over 10 years ago. Now the masonic has closed due to falling membership, and the Tumbler has shut due to er 'police advice'. This leaves only 2 places to go for a pint.

The bowling club will sell you a pint of Guinness for £2.45. The hotel will sell you one for £2.95. Where do you think I go now? A membership of the bowling club costs just £15 a year. I made the money back in a weekend.

Meanwhile attendances at the hotel continue to wane, and no wonder. The landlord is a miserable tight-fisted arsewad. £1.50 for a can of coke? You must be fucking kidding mate.

His function room sits empty while the function room at the bowling club has something on every single weekend.

For big footie matches it used to be strictly standing room only in the hotel. Now you can have your choice of seats.

So what does Mine Host at the hotel do to change things around? Yes, that's right - he slaps 20p on a pint.

Aye, that'll get them back in their droves. You daft old bastard.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:13, 3 replies)
i was once dealing with
the letting of commercial premises to a bar. specifically, a lap dancing bar. the property was commercial use on the ground floor and two flats above. the landlord wanted to rush the deal through before the two flat owners found out and objected. so i came into work one morning to find all the draft licences and lease on my desk.

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

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

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

i think it was better before...
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:06, 7 replies)
I went to a pub quiz for the first time in years the other day.
It reminded me of my first year at university in the lovely Stoke on Trent.
Those of you lucky enough to have visited the ‘Knightsbridge of the Midlands’ will no doubt know what an utter utter hole it is!

When I was 18 and didn’t know any better it didn’t seem so bad. After all I had just escaped Scunthorpe. What is it they say? Out of the frying pan, into the fire…

Some one should certainly have burnt down my first student house share. To call it a shit hole would be insulting to Grimsby. Luckily I was sharing with a good bunch of lads. But what with lads being lads, we never cleaned up. Especially those who had been looked after by their mummies for eighteen years and didn’t even know what a toilet brush was! A visitor to the house could have easily mistaken us for a load of French exchange students.

So, to The Bell And Bear! Every Tuesday with out fail. 7:30pm on the dot.

Looking back it’s amazing I/we had the balls to venture to such a pub, let alone drink in it.

It was situated in an area called Snow Hill. Snow Hill, as I was to come to learn in future years, was the bad lands of a bad city (technically not a city. Five towns, as any good Stokie will never bore of bending your ear over) To say it was a little bit dodgy is a fair analogy. For some reason this never put us off. We merrily skipped all the way there, as we knew what was waiting at the end of the evening…

Most people who have been to Stoke will tell you that the native’s males all look the same. Begby from trainspotting crossed with Ben Kingsly in Sexy Beast.

The Bell And Bear was like a rat nest. Full of them. The quiz master/ landlord paradoxically didn’t fall into this sweeping highly accurate generalization. He was the spitting image of Roy Walker from Catchphrase. The spitting image.

We didn’t go for the quiz, or the knock off lager behind the bar, or the poisonous Rothmans air, or the surly locals itching for a scrap, we didn’t even go for the out-of-date oat cakes (Stokie pubs don’t serve pork scratchings. Just the local delicacy of the Oat Cake. To heinous to describe...). Oh no, the real reason we went was because of Roy.

Every week with out fail he would read out the scores at the end of the evening on his more than adequate stolen PA system. Every week from the minute the quiz ended we schemed and racked our immature brains for a more insulting and shocking pub quiz name.

A few that I remember are: ‘OAP Jizz Lobber’, ‘I Love Cocks Up My Arse’, ‘Aunti Norma’s Gang Bang’ and my personal favourite ‘Full Rectal Prolapse’.

The funny thing was Roy used to read them out with out fail. What was funnier was his disgust as he realized what he had said. He never cottoned on and read the names properly before bellowing them over the PA.

We used to go for weeks and weeks. Well, at least until we had reached‘Full Rectal Prolapse 5’
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 16:04, 7 replies)
Pubs? What pubs?

There's none left open round my way any longer :-(
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 15:27, 8 replies)
Lesbian Strip Bar!
Yes it actualy was.

My long term mate Joe lives in Paris (and I in London). When he comes back to London and go out most the time we will stop off for a a couple fo free drinks at this lesbian strip bar as he's great friends with the manager and her girlfriend. But things aren;t as wonderful as they seem.

Now, at 1st glance this seems like a wonderful thing to try. A bar full of women, only 3-4 blokes and free drinks, does this sound like heaven? It's not, it's nothing like that at all.

The pitbull like doorwoman gives us the 1st hints of what;s to come, not letting us in until the manager has come out and said it;s fine. Then there's the bar staff. Looking at us if;re we're aliens or something. Next is the clientel. The bar is your standard mix of girls, all types, shapes and sizes apart from a larger amount of butch girls than you;d expect in a normal bar. Nothing to write home about. But they are all looking at us and not in a good way.

40 pairs of female eyes looking at 3-4 men. Not one pair backed with a nice thought. That;'s right gentlemen. 40 evil stares of righteous hate burning into our backs. Our skin is slowly sheeding in a desperate attempt to escape. The heat from the combined glares can light ciggys from 10 paces. Hell even the pathetic handful of token gay guys are joining in with this onslaught. The challenge is to see how much we can drink before risk of spontaneous combustion becomes too high.

4 drinks the best we've managed then a girl tried to pick a fight with us.

We've never tried to catch a strip show. I like my balls where they are thank you very much.

One final message to all men hating lesbians:

Not all men are barstweards. The nice ones are out there. Don't "become" a lesbian just to get back at a waste of space you called a boyfriend messed you around. Choose your partner because you like them, not because they are/aren't male/female.

(I'd like to think I'm open enough that if I ever met a man that I found attractive then I would do something, trouble is I think women look 1000 times better then men)

thank you for letting me waste your time.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 15:08, 5 replies)
Not my local...
Don't go into strange pubs in Hounslow. Especially if you chose them on a whim. It should be obvious to anyone who's been there, and I've been here most days for the past 6 years.

Sure, company counts for something, but when your first sight upon walking into a pub is a toothless midget murdering an already dreadful song, while the remainder of the pub watches with what appears to be unshakeable attention, you know your company will only count for so much.

We left when the fight broke out. I don't think the irregulars needed much of an invite before deciding they fancied jumping on the faces of strangers, and I didn't want people jumping on my face, particularly not when they have that kind of weight behind them.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 14:43, Reply)
below has reminded me of a similar pub toilet incident, when the chap next to me glanced over and down, looked away again and said:

"Splendid. Eton?"

Still to this day I wonder whether he in fact said "Eaten?"
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 14:28, Reply)
Monty Boyce reminded me of this one...

In a rather famous gay pub in Camden.

I'm pissed, as usual, and announce to the throng of beautiful people in cut off t-shirts, sporting moustaches and peaked leather caps (ok, that bit is probably bollocks), that I know a facinating fact about this pub.

It all goes a bit quiet.

And I proceed to tell a room full of incredibly large and scary looking homosexual men that Dennis Neilsen, the serial killer, used to pick up his victims in this place to take back to his to meet a grizzly end.

I even remember proclaiming: "Isn't that brilliant!!!"

In my defense, I was pissed.

Thankfully no one hit me. Nice crowd. Though someone did try and chat me up in the toilets later. They looked over at my John Thomas while I was stood next to them at the urinal.

"Nice cock, can I stroke it?"

I declined, though it was nice to be asked.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 14:05, 6 replies)
jolly boys outing, very off centre of topic, However............
my shool muckers, daft idea for a weekend on a bank holiday looning in Margate, tents in a little place called st nicholas at wade 2 pubs, one olde worlde but a plastic lager khazi inside, one nothing to look at, but my divining rods twitched and inside proper, hopvines through the roof real fireplace real ales.

Satuday was play kiddies in the fairground, found a couple of pubs with bands allegedly but they were utter shite and full of chavs so there were no girls worth chatting up ( never did find the one advertising "Mick muff and the divers" IKYN)
Early evening we all bailed out back to campsite and there was another pub about 2 miles from the village that had an acoustic jazz trio on and good beer.

Fine, next day we went there for a Sunday lunch and as we walked in there was an unmistakeable smell of Mary Warner. It was full of old Tory ladies in hats and their henpeckeds in suits, we traced it to an old bird who looked like annie walker from the old Corry, who had a rolly in a cigarette holder.
Ere wos this place, the spliffers arms? Nah rollups return

Lips curled in distaste as we riffraff and oicks ( some ex uni, rowers and rugby players and all in all decent chaps) were welcomed by the host as we shifted some ales the previous night and upped his profits

The memory dam has burst including welshman getting a red flag and sent off the crazy golf course for something none of us saw, probably doing the tosser salute to the owner.

And it rained in london going down and the cricket was held off and we were listening to radio and got the old boys filling in telling tales of indian tours, staying in a hotel called the shagbad, and it lived up to its name, getting more runs off the pitch than on it... and....and.....oh no, reminiscent descent, HELP!
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 14:03, 8 replies)
What the fuck are puppies?
I worked in a pub in Bristol last year to fund my studies. It was part of a massive chain and eventually I left because they dropped my wages without letting me know before hand. But in my last week I took full advantage of the free alcohol that was available at the bar (trying to make up the difference in my pay that I was losing of course...). My last night was of no exception.

I caned it, to put it lightly. Long island iced teas with all the premium spirits, flaming sambucas in the staff corridoor (getting the new girl who was taking my place absolutely smashed). I must have dropped about 5 glasses, but am on charming form with the patrons- last night and all that.

At around 11.45, as we're ringing the last orders bell, i notice a slight confrontation between my new female colleague and a shortish thuggish man so i stroll over.

I'm not a small guy, but at 6'2" and only 11stone, with floral shirts glasses and wavy hair, I'm not exactly intimidating either.

"What's the problem Debbie(nothername)" I asked.
"This man is woofing at me, and asking to see my puppies" the young woman replied.
"Come with me, I'll show you the puppies" I said to the man, and he surprisingly (or maybe not) obliged.

At this point I was working off adrenaline, copious alcohol fumes, and righteous indignation. SO what did I do? I led him into the back room,

So I'm standing in the back room, in my floral shirt, smashed, with a drunk, sexually aggressive skinhead customer, and with all my courage and wit said...

"there are no puppies".

"show me the fucking puppies, he said.

It's at this point I realise I have lost sight of the situation, and have absolutely no idea what i am doing; what the fuck kind of euphemism is puppies anyway? and why did i offer to show him some and bring him to the back room with me?

- i wasn't going to fight him, i certainly wasn't going to try and educate him about proper etiquette around women in my state, and I most definitely was not going to show him puppies.

"I'm not moving until you show me puppies"

Inebriated impromptu vigilante chivalry is so fucking lame, but I seem to attempt it with quite some frequency.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 13:40, 7 replies)
The Bluff
Following my previous, and sad post. The Bluff (in Durban RSA) is notorious for very odd behaviour.

Our band played at Coasters (a different shite venue to my previous story) shortly after Christmas last year. We are a mellow outfit and play the likes of Simply Red, Lionel Richie, Fleetwood Mac etc.

There was one typical drunk fella floating around harrassing everyone. at one stage he went to my wife and told her,"You are not allowed to leave here until I pinch your bum." She pointed to the big guy on stage (me) and said, "if you look at me again he will kick your arse."

He never did.

Some time later that night, a guy wheeled his motorcycle into the bar and proceeded to do a burnout inside, filling the place with rubber flavoured smoke.

None of the regular patrons flinched. I guess they thought it was a smoke machine.

During our break we noticed a small car with steamy windows and one head in the passenger seat. you could make out this guy was getting some prime fellatio. Nothing abnormal until he got out, and then another guy got out the other side.

it was the biker and the drunk...

Our manager got a bollocking from us for booking us into a venue where people smoke eachothers pipes while blowing smoke and trying their luck at being straight
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 13:32, 4 replies)
I work in a pub
and it really grates me when somebody insists on having a shamrock on their head of Guinness.

Naturally, as any good b3tan would do, I draw a CDC and ballsac instead.

(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 13:17, 17 replies)
Big Man

At the age of fourteen I threw off the shackles of childhood and became a fully functioning adult. Yes, I had been served in a pub for the very first time.

An hour later after two pints of Red Stripe, I was happily playing on the swings in the playground next door, pissed as a cunt.

I think this may have shattered the illusion of manhood for my fellow drinkers somewhat...
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 13:13, 2 replies)
hi guys
I dont really wanna go back to talk because they keep making fun of me and gazzing me. one person suggested here. i thought they were being mean again but now i'm here.

How is everyone then
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 12:39, 7 replies)
More bad impressions
Further to my previous post:

I then decided that it would be a safe bet to sort a night out bowling for everyone, so promptly booked at the local bowlarama and a good night was had by all. As we finished off our games and were pretty well oiled we decided to head to my local for a night cap, now this was the first time that my GF had been to my local, and I told her that it's a decent, cheap pub but occasionally there is a bit of trouble or the odd scrap (this was highlighted when a fight broke out at a wake on paddy's day).

So we go there and a pleasant night is being had when suddenly there is a massive kick off in the lounge, it looked like one of those bar brawls from a western, some highlights include:

One girl attempted to break a wine bottle on a chair whereupon it made a loud THUNK noise and bounced back up, the look of pure bewilderment and consternation on her face was pretty funny though.

The fight getting to such a point that it actually ends up in the car park with about 30 people brawling, shouting, crying and possibly farting too

One girl in her best party frock sprinting form one side of the car park to the other, arms whirring round in a Popeye style to hit another girl in a party frock

Anyone not involved in the fight watching form inside the pub and pointing and laughing...

Not a great first impression for my local for the missus...but she's been back since so can't be too bad!

Incidental the local in question is the Woodlands pub, where they used to film the crown green bowling!
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 12:21, 1 reply)
My local
It might be thought fortunate to have a pub within 200 yards of your front door. Indeed, apart from the time I lived next door to a pub it couldn't have been closer really. All-in-all an episode for easy drinking joy you might think. But not when that pub is the 'Gracy Fields' as it is known.
I haven't actually been through the doors for six months, and with good reason, for it is a dive. On my last trip it was karaoke night, although to be honest, every night seems to be karaokoke night.
There was a very sad 'waiting room for death' vibe about the place, and then the karaoke began.
What followed appearred to be a well rehearsed and established foray into bad taste. One by one the punters went up and 'sang' their songs. None of them in any way talented. In fact they sang in much the same way that I make speeches.
Without recourse to notes of any kind.
Also it became obvious that no one was going home until the end, when Jeff and Sam sang their awful duet, which they clearly did every night. It was like being trapped in a Mike Leigh film.
And there's more. I usually sport a #2 on my follically challenged bonce, and yet I usually have the longest hair amongst the male punters. I'm also the only one not wearing a shiny football strip. And now, in my 40s, I am older by a good ten years than the other punters.
A truly awful dive of hellish proportions. Even 'fancyapint.com' disses it.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 12:12, Reply)
Shenanigans.. more like ShenanigDOWNS
Met up in Manchester last November with some top lads

We were actually in a club at the time when one of the boys whips out their camera with a rather stunned/highly amused look

In his Aussie accent he yells fucking hell look at that..

Turning around we see this bloke fingering a girl, not out of the norm you say for a Manchester club? Well upon closer inspection we swear they had down syndrome! (Don't laugh its cruel!) Either that or they were inbreds.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 12:06, 5 replies)
any excuse....
A chap came into my local and ordered a guinnss, while the barmaid was pouring he unzipped his fly and pissed up the bar, and as she said "oi!" he walked out. Next day eaxactly the same to the landlord.

Third day he walked in and the landlord clocked him as he walked in "oi you, 2 days you`ve come in, ordered a pint and not paid for it and pissed up my bar, sod off you are barred for life!" so he walked out.

2 months later the same bloke walks in, the landlord sees him and says go, youare lifetime barred, but the guy says "wait a minute, I`ve gone for help, I`ve been seing a psychiatrist, he has pointed out the problem and I`m cured"

Oh in that case what can i get you?
"pint of Guinness please" as he is pouring again, the chap unzips and takes a pee up the bar *oi you bastard I thought you were cured?"
"I am, I don`t feel guilty about it any more".
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 12:01, Reply)
Fosters promotion
I rocked up late to the Cardiff Union bar (The Taf. Woo!) to find a Fosters promotion in full swing with my mates clad in t-shirts and hats.

"What other prizes can you get?" I ask, to which the answer was a watch

Me: "How many pints?"
Assembled masses: "8"
Me: "How long do I have?"
AM: "40 minutes"
Me: "RIGHT!"


I stumble up the bar approximately 40 minutes and 8 pints later.

Me: "I want a watch!"
Bar man: "Sorry, time's up. and we didn't have any watches left anyway"
Me: "Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!"

Bloody beer promotions
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:44, 4 replies)
Call miss Marple
In South Africa it is uncommon to have a black guy with a lot of white friends. Especially one who parties with us, drinks with us and plays guitar and jams with us.

so Terry went down well with everyone. He literally has hundreds of friends who dont give a shit about his skin colour. Girls flock after him and he is loved by many.

He proclaims himself to be a lover not a fighter and will go out of his way to make peace and be friendly to everyone.

He was often invited on stage to play with whatever band was playing to sing a bit or strum a tune.

A week or so ago, he was at our local having a few. when some out-of-towners took offence to a black guy flirting with a white girl.

in the attack he was sucker punched, he walked away, it flared up again and he was hit over the head with a bottle. (turned out to be by someone he knew)

2 days later he went into hospital in severe pain and slipped into a coma. He died last week at the age of 24. A talented, well respected and loved man is gone.

Just when we thought racism was dying here, some fuck nut neanderthal took things too far.

(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 11:32, 8 replies)

This question is now closed.

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