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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, ... 1

This question is now closed.

a man came into my local
rattling a charity tin, "im collecting for a home for alcoholics" said the man. the landlord gestured to the assorted regulars and odd balls stood at the bar "come back at closing time, you can have as many as you want"
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 10:38, 2 replies)
Long ago
Well, 1979. That's long ago isn't it? I saw the weirdest thing ever in my local. A bunch of lads from the local Rugby club sitting around a table, in plain view (not huddled to protect innocent eyes). Having a wanking contest. Into crisp bags, first finished was the winner, last finished ate the crisps. Soggy biscuit game, yes I've heard of that. But crisps? Salty enough I would think.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 10:26, 8 replies)
Pissing on your own doorstep...
I used to have a friend who lived outside of Oxford, we would occasionally visit the pubs of the village. One of them always struck me as being a bit strange, it just didn't seem very pub like.

Anyway, one New Years day, I switched on the local news to see this story:


If I remember rightly, he missed out on a jail term, but had to pay a hefty fine and got community service. He also got fuck all from insurance, and, as the building was so old, it cost thousands to repair!
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 10:22, 1 reply)
Tommy Tank
In the same pub I used to play pool in, there was a regular nicknamed Tommy Tank - so called because his name was Tommy and he was built like NASA's Vehicle Assembly Building on steroids. Towering over everyone else in the pub, he was an imposing combination of toned muscle and carefully nurtured flab. Tommy Tank had the reputation of a nice, very pissed gentle giant.

It was Friday night a few years back. The pool bar was full of kids so we'd opted to sit in the front with the regulars. Tommy Tank had been in there all afternoon, as was his calling on a Friday, and was twatted, but still able to play a good game of Brag with the ten or so people sat around our table.

Tommy Tank necked his umpteenth pint of snakebite and announced 'Ahm aff tuh drain duh shnake!' The sea of bodies parted to let this man-mountain weave to the gents.

As he came back, a murmur made its way as a wave behind him. We looked up from our cards to see Tommy Tank covered - and I mean covered - in piss, and stinking like only a man drenched in snakebite piss can stink.

This turned out to be a genuine Friday Night Mystery. The landlord politely ushered Tommy Tank out of the pub and gave him a lift home. The landlady checked the gents and not a drop was spilt. We never found out how he'd come to be in that condition and, dear reader, I doubt anyone'll ever have the guts to ask.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 10:16, 4 replies)
Internet Age and the Pint

I don't know if these still exist, I certainly haven't seen one in a pub for ages.

But I remember when this internet fad first started you'd get the odd pub which would have a great big clunky PC in the corner, hooked up to the web so the average punter could check their stock, find a cure for cancer, write sonnets, or possibly just look at tits.

They had one in my local up in Middlesbrough. It sat in a corner and gathered dust. The only time I ever saw someone attempt to use it was when some pissed up old fella sauntered over with his pub lunch and started bashing the buttons on the monitor in an adgitated fashion.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Demanded the landlord, it was that sort of pub.

The old boy turned to the landlord and said, "My pie and chips 'ave gone cold. I want to warm um up in this thing..."

The PC disappeared a few weeks later. We got an Adams Family pinball maching instead. Much more fun.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 9:54, 5 replies)
Urine luck
About 14 years ago I had just moved to a new rented house and decided to visit the pub just across the road (Wahay!)

It was a perfectly normal pub in all respects, except that bafflingly the urinal trough in the gents had various low denomination coins in it - right in the piss-stream.

One coin I could dismiss as someone simply having dropped it, but there was at least a couple of quid’s worth there.

I didn't think too much of it until I next went to the bar, where I noticed a charity notice stating how much had been collected by the kind visitors to the gents!

What was wrong with a collecting tin at the bar, which is when people have loose change in their hands!

Who had the unfortunate job of having to fish out these coins and presumably (hopefully!) washing them before submitting them to charity?

Fucking weirdos
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 9:24, 2 replies)
I used to play at a pub called the ‘Sir Colin Campbell’…

It was a fetid skankhole, rancid and depraved…(and that was the nice, loungey-type area). The décor consisted of puddles of vomit, blood and snakebite splashed about; and you were perpetually sneered at by the ill-tempered staff.

The bar, and more importantly, the ‘Live music’ area upstairs looked as if they had been shat out by the devil’s own pile-infested fudge-funnel after a particularly spicy Madras.

This area of foul repugnance was called ‘Lennon’s Bar.’ I used to like it ;)

I can’t remember the exact year that this incident occurred, but I can sure as shit remember the date. It was December 8th - the anniversary of John Lennon’s assassination.

Mid-gig, in my drunken, faux rock-star state, I launched into some blithering speech about what Lennon himself would make of the world today if he was alive, and wondered how he would feel knowing that this bar was in his sacred name.

I’m unsure as to whether it was the power of my message (highly doubtful), or just bad timing, but as soon as we had finished our performance, we were thanked, paid, and drunkenly hurried out into the night by the landlord…

Who then proceeded to burn the place to the ground.

I don’t know exactly what happened to him afterwards, other than the fact that he was rumbled for it. I’m sure justice prevailed.

However, in my humble opinion…what happened that night was not the real crime.

After the insurance money was collected, the brewery big nobs stepped in and the pub was ‘refurbished’…

They tried to make it all ‘hip’, ‘trendy’, ‘now’, ‘street’, ‘word’, and fuck knows what other disgraceful adjectives. The bar staff were like plastic, smiley cast-offs from daytime TV, and the smell of vomit was replaced with the glisten of chrome and varnish.

But worst of all…

The famous bar sign was replaced by a crap copy of Edvard Munch’s famous ‘Scream’ painting, and emblazoned all over the flourescent yellow walls was the pub's new ‘catchphrase’…

“It’s a SCREAM at the Campbell!”

Ye-cunting-gods. For the love of pine scented fuck-paste, I ask you. Etc.

They even had the sheer temerity to keep the name ‘Lennon’s Bar’, scrawled in some godforsaken neon, in an overpriced glittery shell that was dripping in arcade machines and Aftershock. The place was an abomination to student life and an insult to Lennon’s memory.

I’m sure that if you listen really hard, you can still hear the illustrious ex-Beatle spinning in his grave...I shudder to think what Sir Colin himself would make of it all.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 9:16, 6 replies)
A pub love story
This isn't a very funny story, but it's a nice one at least.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he spoke again.

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

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

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

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

I hoped I'd see him again.

And I did. Nearly every weekend.

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

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

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

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

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

We kissed.

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

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

Don’t tell him I said it, but I want to marry that man one day.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 3:52, 14 replies)
I live in a small ex mining village that has a population of around 38,000. A lot of the populace is made up of (as you can imagine from an ex mining village) middle aged, bonkers ex-miners. We are talking about the hardcore of the mining industry, the guys that held out the longest during the strike, fought the coppers regularly etc and Maggie haters to a man. However I digress.

For many years the expected standards of local drinking establishments were relatively low. "Boobles" (name changed not-very-subtly) was once my local and was (before very recent improvements) a superb example of a spit and sawdust shit-hole, right down to the 1980's decor and the minging outside toilets. However Boobles was not entirely without charm. The locals are pretty colorful, the staff friendly and the vodka cheap - so not all was lost.

Right - on with the post. Boobles has a small "snug" area next to the stairs (yes - Boobles is underground) and this is where "The Incident" took place. Me and my mates where in said snug drinking, I went to the stinking /freezing outside bog, and when I can back I spotted a familiar yet out of place object on the floor.

Me - "Urgh!! thats not what I think it is, is it?!?"

Mates - "Arrgghh!! F**kin hell!, aye it is!!"

Someone had left a used tampon on the floor of the pub. A. Used. F**cking. Tampon.

Picture the scenario -

Bloke - "Giz a shag"

Skank - "ner man, I'm on the blob"

Bloke - "so f**k"

Skank - "Ur alreet then, just a sec"

(Small "pop" sound as tampon is pulled out and discarded)

then two scumbags shagging in full view of at least half the clientelle. Yech!!

So - to remedy the situation I told the bar staff so they could dispose of the item. What happened next will live with me forever. A lady from the bar came out holding a dustpan and brush wth the legend "Kitchen only" emblazened upon it with the intention of picking the item up - the problem with this strategy was that when she got close enough to flick it on to the dustpan she was heaving enough fit to barf - potentially adding to the problem. When she eventually got the thing on the dustpan (after I did it for her, she was in a mess) we realised that she had not brought a bag to to put it in and so was forced to walk through a packed pub with her arm fully extended in front of her with dustpan containing a smelly used tampon at face height all the way. Predictably this had the effect of stampeding the locals who managed to see what she was carrying, blokes full on running into each other/walls/the bar, drinks being spilled in panic the lot, while our lot sat back and took in the whole scene.

(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 2:10, 4 replies)
Not only short but also crap
Years ago our tinpot band of mates played a gig in a pub in Portsmouth.

A few weeks later we see on the local evening news the landlord & lady are up in court on manslaughter charges for apparently encouraging one of the regulars to drink himself to death on the premises.

An only slightly less tragic story, my mate's sister used to work in our local, she had a regular who would come in first thing, every day, order a pint of whisky and make it last all day.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 1:34, Reply)
I once tore a piercing out of someone's cock in my local.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 1:11, Reply)
So this dyslexic walks into a bra...

(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 0:27, 1 reply)
So there I am sitting in my local happy as larry when I look up to find Jesus. I kid you partially, There was a man quaffing a pint with long flowing brown hair a well kepmt God beard and wearing only, and I cannot stress enough the only, a sheet! He spent most of the afternoon there as far as I can remember. Nice fellow but should have stuck to the wine.
(, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 0:04, 1 reply)
A grim one
This story goes back some 22 years, to when I was 18 years old. Ive changed the name of the pub, and the names of the couple who ran it, for reasons which will become apparent, but the rest is as accurate as I can remember it.

I had been drinking regularly in the local pubs for several years. This was a small village in Buckinghamshire, right out in the sticks. The kind of place where they didnt bother about such things as whether you were legally old enough to be drinking in a pub, closing times, or even whether someone was going to drive home plastered. My favourite pub, The Kings Arms, had regular lock-ins, and Dave, the landlord, used to let us smoke joints in there after hours. It was a real old fashioned English village pub (remember those?), but attracted some right characters, and a good night was always had.

Dave was a lazy old bugger and used to leave most of the graft to his wife, Janet, while he sat on a bar stool near the till, taking peoples money, drinking litres and litres of whisky and keeping us entertained with tales from his days in the RAF.

Janet hadnt been seen for a few weeks and people began asking of her whereabouts. Dave would just reply that she hadnt been feeling too well recently and was upstairs, asleep. We began to wonder if she'd finally had enough of the lazy old git and left him. Other than this, everything was normal. The pub was open every night, full of all the usual regulars, and Dave was his usual self, drinking loads of whisky and whinging every time he had to haul his arse up off his stool to serve someone.

Then one evening me and a coulpe of mates arrived at the Kings Arms to find it closed. Not only was it closed, but there was a police car parked outside. And 2 policemen standing around looking bored and cold and drinking tea from a flask. And police incident tape surrounding the pub. Never a good sign.

Being the cheeky young twats that we were, we approached the 2 policemen and asked when they were opening. "Fuck off, sonny" came the not entirely unexpected reply.

So we did, to one of the other pubs in the village. At the bar I asked what was going on over at the Kings Arms, and the reply from the barman sent a chill down my spine. It still chills me now, all these years later.

"He's killed her"

And indeed he had. Bludgeoned her to death with a hammer.

Now this is where things get seriously weird, as if it wasnt bad enough already.

Janet had been found by her daughter, upstairs in the pub, under the bed, wrapped in christmas paper. (WTF?) She had been dead for several weeks.

Now what really freaks me out still to this day, is that I was drinking in that pub, being served by Dave, laughing and joking with my mates, while this poor woman, who I had known for several years, was laying dead in one of the rooms above us.

He got life, of course, and died in prison about 8 years ago.

Sorry for lack of funny. I need to go and lie down.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 23:16, 5 replies)
Burnout in Paradise
My mate Matt, who runs the Pack Horse in Keswick bought his superbike into the lounge one evening and proceeded to do a burnout. Untill the carpet caught fire. Spose you can do what you like in your own pub.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 23:04, Reply)
In a club called "The Warehouse" in Preston.

Would buy beer but, every week at some point, some bastard stole it.

So, one week was exceptionally drunk, bought a pint, drank half of it and filled the rest up with piss.

Went off to dance, came back, and had a long drink...
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 23:02, 3 replies)
Nothing, actually
Most places I go to are pretty mellow, though it IS nice to get caught up in the drama of who is screwing who...
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 22:29, Reply)
One of the regulars in my local is Cowboy. He's a bonafide rancher from Nebraska now living in the big bright city.
He's a racist, homophobic, sexist piece of scum.

3 years ago, he got his 4th DUI and was incarcerated in one of Orange County's finest jails for 6 months. He still drinks and drives.

About 5 years ago, this numbskull decided it would be a good idea to pick on 4 rather large Marines that come down to the bar every week. No reason, he was just pissed as a fart and thought one of them had "looked at him funny". By this point, us regulars knew the shit was going to hit the proverbial fan, so we got the little old lady manouvered into the back by the fire door, and all started moving back ourselves.

All of a sudden, Cowboy lunges at one of the Marines, misses and breaks his knee on the side of the pool table at the same time as twatting his chin on the corner of it. Blood everywhere and bits of kneecap sticking out of his knee.

The Marines stayed until the ambulance and police came. We all gave our statements (in favour of the Marines who hadn't done a damn thing wrong!).

Cowboy went on to sue the bar, the Marines and inexplicably the little old lady (apparently it was something she'd said that started it - NOT!).
The Marines and little old lady charges were laughed out of the court.
He successfully won $28,000 out of the bar for "lack of security"...how fucked up is that?

Needless to say, he's now barred from most bars in this town.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 22:19, Reply)
It's quite sad really.
The Apple (in Bedminster, Bristol).

For those of you who don't know Bedminster, it has its fair share of 'social problems', every other shop is either a version of 'cash converters' or a bookies/gaming arcade

Anyway, the pub is question is a cider house, popular with the unemployed, the unemployable and, now and very occasionally, me.

Many many years ago, I played 5-a-side- footy on some broken glass covered 'pitch' oppostite it.

So, post match, gone in for a large apple juice and it all stars to kick off.

Two pensioners - one wearing his hard earnt medals from the war - start going at each other. Not in a glass-in-face way, more 'proper punches' considered, accurate and with devestating determination.

Two proper hard old school fighting men.

The reason?

Apparently, one of them happened to 'glance' in the direction of the fruit machine whilst the other one was gambling. The gambler lost his couple of quid and accused the other pensioner of 'giving that machine evils' (to translate, staring at it, therefore making sure he lost his money).

When I spoke to the guv'nor of the pub he said, 'Oh, those two? They are always at it, last week they had a fight because one of them had bet on a horse and we were showing the race, so obviously it was the other one who was responsible for that rank outsider that lost....'

Gotta love Cider houses.

(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 21:56, 2 replies)
I went along to a lockin back in the day
and buster bloodvessel was there. Awesome guy who managed to drink everyone under the table.

This pub normally hosted strippers during the day so he was a bit put out that none of them were there at the time, so some of the guys did some impromptu pole dancing for him.

The White Horse in High Wycombe if anyone knows it
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 21:53, 4 replies)
1 pin
Not my local, but I think the folks in it might have been.
Witnessed an incredible experiment into what happens when you bowl a bowling ball into someones head from about 4 feet (that's not very far to those that use metric). The conclusion was it causes blood, large amounts of.
He was a willing participant too, that bit I don't understand.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 21:49, 1 reply)
Football related
You might need to understand the rivalry between the clubs involved to follow this one. Apologies if it makes no sense.

I was the second in charge of a pub called The Hand and Flower on the Fulham Palace Road. 200 yards from Chelsea Football Club. We had a mix of regulars who supported both Chelsea and Fulham and generally got on OK. It seems that as long as you look after them well and keep your hands off their women, all was fine.

However I had a guilty secret.

I was (and still am) a QPR supporter.

I managed to keep this a secret for about 2 months until one fateful lock in when I thought it was the honourable thing to do and confess.

To my surprise I kept my job and my teeth, and they even stopped pulling my trousers down in the fried chicken shop around the corner. About a week later, one of the hardest of the lot of them called me to the quiet end of the bar and from beneath his jacket handed me a package in a brown paper bag.

"Don't tell anyone else" he said, but I've got the last 5 seasons at home if you want to borrow them"

Video of QPR season in review.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 21:30, 5 replies)
Sitting outside the local...
A little girl (it was a family establishment not a nonce hangout before you start)came out to ask for sponsor money for a walk her and the school were arranging.
I put down my £5 as you do and noticed that on the list was a man who's surname was 'Hellwing',me being sooo funny spotted it and started brandishing my coat around saying "See my Hell-wings, I am the Mighty Hellwing!" only to realise it was the local nutter sitting at the next bench glaring at me, cue me being collared everytime I went in for stories of stabbing people, etc. I think I made him feel like a superhero.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 21:18, Reply)
Fawcett Inn
I used to live down the road from the Fawcett Inn in Portsmouth.

Pick your own punchline, I'm too tired.

For the record, I've since moved and live somewhere nice now, where the pubs are pleasantly named and full of socially acceptable nutters.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 21:04, 6 replies)
My only Pub Story
I had nipped out the front for a cigarette and I was standing minding my own business when to the right of me there was a bit of a kerfuffle.

A young gentleman had tipped his drink right in his lap and was now proceeding to remove his jeans.
He was wearing cowboy boots, which amused me greatly. As he passed me to go into the pub in his underpants and cowboy boots, I gave him a wink and a grin and said 'Nice boots mate'. He grinned back at me and said 'cheers!'

I turned to go back inside half a minute later, gave a nod to the bouncer, who said to me "did that just happen?" At that moment he realised that he'd let a man with no trousers into the pub, and hurried off to find him. They take dress codes very seriously in Invercargill.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 20:52, 1 reply)
my old local...
my old local becoming the local lesbian pub wasnt going to stop us hanging out there. years of fun were had in that place. wild drunken parties, mad nights and 6am lockins, all the more fun because we weren't trying to impress girls.

somewhere, there still exists a ten minute video of me telling my friend exactly why he should kill himself during one of the parties.

then a new landlady came in, and barred all the old regulars. it shut down in 6 months and is now scheduled for demolition.

thanks for they memories rosey.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 20:38, 1 reply)
Anglo Italian Relations

My dad's mate was opening a pub in a little town named Lesina in the south of Italy.

My dad, bowing to my superior knowledge of all things pubby, asked me to give him an adequately Britsh sounding pub name so he could pass it onto his mate.

Ho Ho Ho!!! Thought I, scribbling something down off the top of my head. Handing it to my old man I promptly forgot about it.

Turns out they were about a week away from having an authentic British pub in Lesina named The Feltchers Rest.

God, I'd have paid good money to see the sign above the door for that one.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 20:10, Reply)
Dave "stairs"
my old local was the Bridge House Tavern in Penge (I lived round the corner in Sydenham though...before anyone calls me a Pikey) and the pub has a large staircase from top bar to ground floor.
Dave Stairs became known as such because he fell full length down all the stairs, carrying a pint and a half of Stella, and lay dazed at the bottom, still holding both unbroken (but empty) glasses. I saw/heard him go and thought he was dead for a minute. He wasn't pissed, you know.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 19:46, Reply)
Shit pub, bad disco
Having had too many and my mates letting me down and not coming out, I ended up dancing to the horrible, horrible music that populates East Sussex Working mens clubs.
I was a regular so I knew everyone but watching horses of overweight women dancing to Teh fucking Quo, I ended up walking home alone.
The next night I went out again to scold all of my friends for leaving me to face that durge on my todd, only to be faced by a slighlty irate old guy (Happy Howard, great guy, normally very friendly, RIP) telling me I'd better aplogise to his wifey for having danced so innapropriatly with her the previous night. In front of everyone I actually had to ask what he meant as I had no memory, and he reckoned I'd been 'dirty dancing' with his 70-odd year old missus.
With a background of my friends pissing themselves, I had to buy them a drink sit down and apologise.
Turns out she thought nothing of it and told him to stop being so silly because there was no problem in the first place, I hadn't bump'n'grinded with her at all it seems. Phew.
I didn't really mind, it was a case of a fine old gent reclaiming his dignity and he was cool afterwards. Until he died anyway.
(, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 19:35, Reply)

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