South Star Inn in Llanelli
What have I seen in my local?

I saw a man stabbed in the stomach with butcher’s knife.

I saw a girl chuck neat vodka onto another girl and set her alight.

I saw a barman pour drinks for pissed customers using a ‘dregs bottle’ and short change them for the privilege.

I saw a man OD on the bathroom floor.

I saw a man collecting change from a full and overflowing urinal.

I saw a girl vomit copiously onto a table then continuing her conversation with no one batting an eyelid.

I saw a dog lick its own balls.

I saw a 60 year old woman dancing to Abba and slowly undressing whilst she did.

I saw a couple having sex in the corner of the room.

I saw a man place a cooked steak in his pocket.

I saw a boy snorting pepper with his hands in his trousers.

I saw a girl eating food from the floor.

To conclude: Don’t ever go to my old local, the South Star Inn in Llanelli.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:24, 8 replies)

A bit rough then?
I used to drink at a pub on Teesside that had, to say the least, a bit of a rough edge. Bare boards on the floor, with a sprinkling of sawdust (still sawdust on the floor in the 1980s, you never see it now outside of theme pubs). Although there was the odd table with old men playing dominoes, in the main its clientele was hard-bitten foundrymen mostly, covered in tattoos and burns from the molten iron.

A real old-fashioned boozer, really. What I was doing there regularly I'm not very sure, now that I come to think of it, good beer I suppose, but once you became a regular you were kind of accepted as one of the hive and I never had any trouble myself; however fights were common and seemed to spark up from nowhere.

One evening I was once chatting to the landlord about the fights in the pub, and commented that I supposed he kept a baseball bat or something under the bar for when trouble really got out of hand.

"Nah" he said "The thing with bats and stuff is that they're quite intimidating, but they're not always that easy to swing and get a good hit in, and it can get grabbed, and all that. If I just want to get people out I just grab them and chuck them out" - this was true, that's just what he did, usually after getting their attention with a polite tap to the kidneys.

He continued "If I want to really stop them then I use this:" He reached under the bar and pulled out an old tenon saw. This thing had a blade about ten inches long, with a thick brass bar down one edge, and a set of jagged teeth down the other that, though dirty, still managed to glint in a meaningful way.

"It's got a good handle for grip", he said, brandishing it by way of demonstration, "and once you chop someone with it the bastard's not coming back for another"

"I bet they don't", I said, musing on what sort of wound a thing like that would leave.

Despite the reassurance on the security front, I started to find myself drinking in different pubs more after that.
(richardm, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:10, 5 replies)

Marked for life
I live just a few doors down from one pub, and pretty much directly across the road from another. The house next door to the second of these pubs has recently been reopened as a tattoo parlour.

It stays open until after closing time on a Friday night, so Gorton's finest can get ink while pissed.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:07, Reply)

BLOOD PISS VOMIT & GORE ! ! !

A few years back I went on a date with an undergraduate who worked in my office over the summer named Zoe. Nice girl. There was also an element of danger attached to Zoe because she was the company owners daughter. My line manager, seeing the abject flirtatious behaviour between Zoe and I, even pulled me to one side and said: "Don't.... Just don't!!!" Which just made me want to even more. (I'm a bit of a twat like that).

Zoe asked if I fancied going to the pub after work one balmy summers day... and for the next few hours I sat at my desk with twitchy cock syndrome, watching the clock.

We ended up in a rather famous metal pub near Camden Town tube station. A pub which was also cunningly close to my love shack, where I was planning to take this girl later after I'd plied her with alcohol - the one and only, tried and trusted love lubrication.

Things were going well.

I felt a bit of a dick sitting there in my starched white office shirt, but I had taken my tie off so was mixing it up with the metallers quite well, I thought. The rounds were stacking up, the time was flying, and I was doing what I always do when I try and chat up a girl:

Attempt to be witty and funny and slip seemlessly into the conversation somewhere the fact that I'm hung like a wooly mammoth.

"Zoe, did you know I'm hung like a wooly mammoth?" I slurred. I must've been about five or six pints into the session by then.

Zoe laughed - thank fuck - and went to get another round in. This girl could drink!

Now, I don't know about you, but I've got this weird thing when I'm in a pub with a girl and I'm trying to impress her... I just don't go to the toilet. Somehow I don't think its gonna help the sexy cause if I'm constantly getting up to sway to the gents for a slash. I'd rather sit there with my bladder swelling to the size of a small Eastern European country before I have to go and release the pressure.

The pub was pretty quiet for a Friday night, it was a hot day and people must've been doing the beer garden thing instead. So, while Zoe waited for service at the bar I decided to slink off and empty my bladder, which must've constituted half my bodyweight by this time.

When I stand I realise I'm really pretty pissed by now, I stagger a bit and find the bogs. Push open the door and-

-GET HIT IN THE FUCKING FACE BY A SPEEDING FUCKING FREIGHT TRAIN !!!

Well, that's what it felt like.

I had to piece together what happened after the event. Some bright fucking spark had rammed a load of toilet paper into the floor - level urinals that lined one wall, blocking the drain and causing the pub toilets to flood with about an inch of piss water. I must've taken a couple of steps into the toilet in my ever-so-sensible work shoes which had absolutely no fucking grip at all, skidded on the translucent pool, and somehow twatted my face against the sink on the way down, knocking myself out stone cold.

....

I was woken by a strange sensation...

...in my mouth.

A trickling, cold, chemical taste was flicking against my tongue and lapping at the back of my throat. My head hurt like fuck and I had a strange awareness of being... wet... and cold.

Suddenly, as consciousness flooded back, I sat bolt upright and proptly projectile vomitted, Exorcist-style, all over my shirt, trousers, and right down to my shiny black shoes.

Apparently drinking strangers piss has this effect on a person.

Reaching out a hand, I used the sink to help clamber upright and I took a look at myself in the mirror.

Sweet-mother-of-holy-fucking-fuck!

I was a fucking mess...

Blood was pouring out of a gash in my head and the front of my lovely clean white shirt had turned red with blood. I had lumps of brown beer vomit crusted to my nose, mouth, down my chin, and also - oddly - in my hair.

Oh, and then I noticed that I had also pissed myself...

I washed my face off a bit, grabbed some paper towels and started scrubbing at my shirt and pissy trousers. I suddenly remembered the potential shag, Zoe, who must've been wondering where the hell her date had fucked off to.

Fuck!!!

I scrubbed harder. I even emptied the soap dispenser, squirting loads of the cheap smelling pub soap into the palm of my hand and smearing it over the front of my shirt and trousers, working it into a whitish, brownish, yellowy pink paste of detergent, vomit, piss, and blood.

Regarding myself in the mirror, I realised I looked like some kind of fucking satanic snowman.

It was not a good look.

I started to panic now. I thought: If I can just get Zoe back to mine, I can rush up to the bathroom, have a quick shower, and get on with some well earned fucking.

I think I must've been concussed.

A young metaller wandered into the toilet. Took one look at me, his eyes wide with horror, and fucked off. I must've looked an awful lot like Eddie on his Iron Maiden t-shirt.

Eventually, after a bit more scrubbing, I admitted defeat... and ambled back out to the pub. By this time I was quietly sobbing to myself, a trail of snot and tears mixing with the blood and vomit that I'd managed to smear round my face.

Zoe saw me and her eyes widened...

Well... She did go back to mine that night. Well, she walked me back to mine to make sure I was ok.

But the closest I got to a wet gash was cleaning up the fucking cut on my forehead...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:04, 2 replies)

The Athaeneum, Camberwell
Anyone else frequent this now-defunct boozer in South London?

Plenty of 24 hour drinking sessions went on in that hallowed place. The fantastic landlord would close the thick curtains, lock to door, make the pool table free-of-charge and then bring round complementary rounds of Guinness until the last man was conscious.

There were some interesting characters who'd frequent the place, including the old old guy with the white beard and once-smart suit who'd sit at the bar drinking his liver away, never saying a word to anyone. He'd occasionally be seen on the Camberwell Road pavement in a pool of his own piss. Nobody know how he got the money for his enormous drink habit, and so the rumour got out that he was an eccentric millionaire. Everyone was really friendly to him in the vain hope that he'd philanthropically leave his fortune to them when he died.
( sm.pl.crt.rs I don't fucking know, do I?, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:03, Reply)

I'll see you both & raise you one of mine...
Worthy of mention was my local frequented all through growing up, the Black Horse.
Conveniently located at the top of the local main street, backing on to the road that ran right up past the entrance to our school.

All through O Level year myself & a few mates would often nick off school in the afternoons & end up in there. They had a back room conservatory type affair opening out onto the beer garden and car park, which housed a pool table (20p a game, them were t'days) a cracking video jukebox, and they kept a lovely drop of Bass best Scotch on tap for around a quid a pint.

Local custom dictates that from about the age of 13/14 all the local youngsters would go drinking in there on a Friday & Saturday night, as part of the weekly drunken ritual known as "Chesta Front Street", so the Black Horse bar staff were all used to seeing us in there. Thinking about it, they must have known we were well underage, but I remember always getting served in there no problem, even really young when it was touch and go in some other boozers.
Careful choice of clothing (close enough to school uniform but casual enough to not look out of place when the tie came off) was the order of the day, and many happy afternoons (and pounds) were spent in that back room playing pool, smoking tabs & getting nicely pissed, before rolling home at teatime and trying to hide it from the folks.

Anyway... on one notable such afternoon, I remember a mild fracas was caused in there when the landlord happened to wander into the back room to collect glasses or wipe tables or summat, only to find the pool table strewn with miscellaneous clothing and the flower of the town's youth all staggering about pissed up and in various stages of undress.

After a few drinks, someone had thought it would be a laugh to have a game of strip poker in there.

Fair play, none of the lasses needed asking twice either.

Happy days!
(Roger_Irrelevant he's completely hatstand, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 9:58, 2 replies)

I cried as I left
I have been teargassed three times in my life. All three were on the same night.

The setting is not quite a pub, but the club to which I used to go every Friday during my A-Level "studies". It was called, variously, The Hippodrome and The Cube, and it had a downstairs area for the mainstream music, and an upstairs area for alternative music, where the floor would be heaving with people every time "Smells Like Teen Spirit", "Last Splash" or "Suds and Soda" got played.

It was also quite a grotty place. You didn't so much stick to the carpet around the bar as get sucked into it. Oh, well.

One cold February night in 1995, I was there as usual, doing what teenagers do at clubs where the cider is cheap and the clientele is cheaper. My eyes began to smart.

Odd.

They smarted some more. Other people were looking uncomfortable.

Someone had smuggled in a teargas canister and let it off.

You might think that this would clear the club - but I told you that it was grotty and cheap. There was a slight intermission, then the music began again. The air cleared quickly - I can only assume that the air-con was reasonable, the fire doors were open... I don't know.

An hour later, our eyes were hurting again. Again, the club stayed open.

It was only after canister #3 was let off that the club was finally evacuated.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 9:58, 5 replies)

"What'll it be-aaaaaargh!"
My regular used to be The Old Devil near Maidenhead. Alas, it is now an upmarket gastro-pub, but back in the day it was a den of drunken debauchery, where a round would be six pints of strong, strong bitter, half a dozen servings of cardiac-inducing gateau and a Top Shelf.

The Top Shelf – for those of you not in the know – is a measure from every optic on the bar's top shelf in a pint class. A pint glass takes 18 of these measures, and, if you can stand the taste of crème du menthe, it is a quick route to extreme drunkenness, projectile vomiting and DEATH.

As anybody who works in a pub knows, the done thing when somebody says "And have one yourself" to the barman is to add a quid to the bill and sip something non-alcoholic throughout the evening. Not so Paul, our drunken Mein Host, who, on offered "And have one yourself" would down a shot of the hard stuff on the spot.

And every evening, around ten o'clock, he would reach that point where he forgot where the stairs down to the cellar started.

A punter would come up to the bar, and Paul would stride over to serve them, before falling into the deathly grip of Newton's Law of Gravitational Attraction.

"Yes cock, what'll it be-aaaaaaaaargh!" THUD-THUD-THUD-CRUMP, followed by the sound of landlord skittling into the CO2 tanks that powered the fizzy drinks.

There would invariably be a short, tense pause, before Paul would emerge, blood, spit and vomit down his shirt, his arm hanging at a funny angle and not entirely sure of the day of the week.

"So, that's three pints of Oak, a Fosters and a packet of crisps then?"

"Yeah, an' have one yourself."
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 9:36, 4 replies)

Well I suppose I'd better list a few from me last local then :p
I'll be brief by here; I've posted most of these before.

Fights - lots of them, people being beaten outside for calling the landlord's 15 year old daughter a slapper resulting in a huge street fight of riotvan proportions.
A mentally disabled guy being attacked by an angry drunk, only to be beaten by 6 druggy teenagers afterwards for doing it.
2 skinhead football hooligans, wound up by a twat of a local drinker decided to play "Javelin" with some pool cues smashing a front window, while I run the bar (I managed to stop them killing everyone and got them to say "Sorry" too, which was comical).
A barmaid getting glassed in the face because she shouted "Matt" to another barman and a woman-drinker thought she was called a twat.

Love - lesbian love/sex, from 2 members of our pool team (that made for an interesting match :D).
Glancing out of the pub window one night to see a couple having it off outside on the neighbouring building's roof (and after getting everyone in the pub to watch out of the windows, 2 other blokes appeared next to the couple to help fill her open holes). It ended with one of the barman shouting "Go on luv!" and the 3 men turning and taking a bow to us, while the girl covers her face in shame. Same said barman shouts "No point covering that, we've seen everything else!"
A drunk DJ trying it on with our psychotic 4 foot landlady who, when the DJ started touching her leg decided to get 2 doormen to "eject" the DJ headfirst onto the pavement outside, dropping all his gear on the floor next to him too.
More random sex things (people touching eachother up to the point where condoms should have been used), like the rest of the regular drinkers wouldn't notice.

Drink - one guy from another pool team turns up for support, then preceeds "for a laugh" to shoot 13 pints of Guiness in 1 hour, the last of which he did while doing a handstand (his mate said to me "The funny thing is, he's diabetic too"....not for long thinks me).
Me landlady has an allergy to vodka, which makes her highly violent. She had a date with someone whom she didn't like, so I got one of the regulars to drink vodka-redbulls with her before the date. Date turns up, landlady is twitching like a ticking timebomb. They go to the cinema and she stays aggresive and on the defensive for the entire date. In fairness the poor bloke stayed with her until they got back to the pub, where she simply walked upstairs and didn't come back down until he left.

Oddities - some drunk complained about people after him, so I told him he'd be better off going home. With that he says "Nah I'll be alright" and pulls a gun out on me. "FFS put it away you dull twat" says I, and he apologises and puts it away again. The next morning I kinda realize what happened and manage to stop myself nervous-vomiting everywhere.
A regular brings in a date; some real rough skank of a woman. He keeps an eye on her for a while until he decides to leave her there while swaering to himself on the way out. I go over to eject the woman and the landlady comes over to give me a hand. At that moment the woman slides a can of lighter fluid out of her sleeve and takes in a deep breath, before sliding the canister back up her arm. It took us 5 minutes to get her outta the pub and, after avoiding her trying to snog me (!) I convinced her that her date was outside calling her, to which he got up and ran after him.

Soz for teh length, got plenty more where these came from :)

PS Thanks for voting for my suggestion (sheds tear from japs-eye)
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 9:27, Reply)

Fancy Dress
On a night out in the local to celebrate my 21st.

Everyone in our group is in fancy dress.

I'm dressed as a doctor.

As I walk towards the bar, a rather large bloke stops me and says "Ere you go mate, have a look at this" and proceeds to unzip his flies and poke a testicle out.

Words failed me, they truly did.
(porkinator is a Rock n Roll nerd!, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 9:24, Reply)

Beer and Evangelism...
It was 44C outside, and I had slunk into my local with a few workmates after a gruelling 9 hour shift (call centre work doth breed the alcoholic). I was just getting close and personal with my ice-cold beer, when I was forced to sidle along the bench to accomodate a woman who strongly resembled the possible lovechild of Keith Richards and Kathy Bates' character in 'Misery'. She smelled a little like mothballs with a hint of garlic.

I managed to ignore her for a few minutes, until she leaned in and asked our table very politely and even demurely "excuse me, do you mind if I pray?"

We were a little taken aback, but how do you refuse that sort of request? Surely a refusal of that nature skates dangerously close to religious intolerance? Well, tolerant open-minded metropolitan young things that we are, we replied, albeit hesitantly, "go ahead."

She then proceeded to wail, rocking back and forth on her chair, and screeching out the mantra "Oooooh forgive me for the terrible thoughts I have in my head...oooooh forgive me for the terrible ideas I have in my head!!" interspersed with bouts of near-wretching. She repeated this for about 10 minutes until security got rid of her, but not before she grabbed my hand and whispered intensely "it's not too late to get rid of them all, you know!!"

So much for a quiet trip to the pub.
(bumberclark, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 9:18, Reply)

My wife never knew I was an alcoholic until one day I came home sober.

someone more famous than me said something like that


( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:58, Reply)

An underaged all day-er (with a nap)
Shimmery fade back 18 years...

It was the day of our GCSE results, and being already well versed in the arts of imbibing, we'd planned a full day pub crawl. I had been blessed with a sparse amount of chin hair and an arrogance bordering on perfection and as such I was rarely troubled at the bar, couple that with my friend who had a voice deep enough to do a passable Right Said Fred cover version we envisaged no problems getting served.

Off we trotted, the first pint coming from the pub closest to the school (remarkable, really), followed by many, many more, the last 2 (before the nap) obviously taken in the style of dwarven warriors.

We were huge fantasy fans, and had often read of dwarves "quaffing jugs of mead". Now, not being entirely sure how to quaff, we decided it was simply a matter of throwing a pint of lager at your face and hoping some went in your mouth, lots of fun, but rather smelly all told.

We decided that we should probably call it a night, and headed back to Right Said Fred's house as planned (very cool parents), on the journey however, he became agitated about us having to go to different 6th form colleges and it became clear that the best way to deal with this agitation was a fight.

Staying on the tube an extra stop and deciding we could probably pick up a scrap on the long walk back, we took to insulting every likely lad with our harshest cuss "You helmet". Thankfully, and understandably, not one of them took the bait, and we arrived home unscathed.

Wobbling upstairs we bedded down for the night, it was 7pm.

But the epic adventure didn't end there...

We woke again at 10, as thirsty as young men should be and headed out for lasties.

This time however our luck was out, so we wander to the local green and were befriended by a couple of young lovers with a 2 litre bottle of party punch and a guitar, a few swigs and a song later, we trundled back to his place and made crank phone calls with his little brother, my most memorable being the father of little brothers ex-girlfriend, whom I asked "Do you like Camembert?" before hanging up.

Length: 13 pints, 12 hours, 6 crank calls, 3 hours nap, a few tears, 1 fine kebab and 0 fights. Epic.
(babydad, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:57, 1 reply)

Well there was that one time.....
I had some B3tans round my local pub for a game of pool. A young lad turned up who wanted to play and he joined us for the night.

Turns out he thought we were a group of swingers.


Well he wasn't far off the mark.
( girlinthehole, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:57, 1 reply)

I once saw a termite walk into
a pub and ask "is the bar tender here?"

/coat
( ForecastMonkey, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:39, Reply)

Every pub has its weirdo
I've worked in a few bars over the years, and met many of the lively characters who frequent such places.

Neil was a middle aged guy, who appeared to be homeless, his countenance was always jittery, and he would hop about as he spoke, like an epileptic lemur on a dance mat.
The first time I met him I had only just started working in a small pub in a quiet little town. He wobbled in, bounced off some of the regulars and approached the bar.
'Alright mate, what can I get you?' I asked.

'If you can give me the correct answer to one simple question, I'll give you one million pounds' he juddered.

Bemused, I decided to humour him and told him to fire away.

'What...' he said, the tension in him obviously building, '..is the largest organ in the human body?' and he jiggled about as though desperate for the toilet.

Now I thought the answer to this was a fairly obvious one, it's the same question I'd seen in biology textbooks when I was 12, so I gave the answer, 'It's the skin, isn't it?'

Neil stopped juddering. He looked so deflated and crestfallen that I actually felt sorry for him, and wished that I'd got the answer wrong.

Over the next few weeks I saw him ask the same question to everybody he met, and for some reason none of them knew the right answer.
He never did give me my million pounds, and the last time I saw him he was following a young couple home. I can only hope that he quietly murdered them both and is now living in their house, wearing their skin and watching Hollyoaks.
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:12, 1 reply)

My local...
Generally full of like-minded misfits as myself.

So, Bruno fell asleep in the bar, we all decided to build a fort around him to protect him (I know, I know) - then we woke him up :)

YouTube goodness - may contain some swearing and/or drug references...

And the classic 'Wendy in a box' where Andy and me boxed her up, carried her outside...and left her there :)
( snee held his breath since, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 8:05, Reply)

English "lesson"
The Wagon and Horses is the sort of village pub that's about the size of an average frontroom and blokes stand at the bar with broken shotguns. (Not the same sort of broken shotguns one finds for sale in Newham pubs.)

A bloke from the village (utter twunt) was talking to some no necked, fat handed, but pleasant enough pikeys.

The last thing I overheard him say was "You know your problem? You just don't have a grasp of the English language."

Without even (as far I was concerned) the obligitory "Grasp this." They knocked him from one of the pub to the other many times over; they had to because it was very small. Each time was funnier than the last.

I still enjoy the memory of the look of confusion he wore as he decided wether it was real or not and tried to work out what he had done to deserve it.

Oh, and a man set fire to his own arm. On purpose. (insert firearm joke here.)
(bellboy last hit the tit on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 7:57, Reply)

I'm here all week, try the veal
I walked into my local the other day, and there was an Englishman, Irishman, and a Welshman, two homosexuals, a farmer, a Jehovah's Witness, a talking duck, and a table of students. I didn't stay long.


By the way, off topic but want to share, my boy (the one who poos everywhere) was in a car crash last week - a nasty head-on one caused by a young girl veering into the wife's lane while looking elsewhere. When I got to the scene, he was a bit bashed up but ok, but in floods of tears. Turned out that all he wanted was his Transformer which was still in the wreck. I went and got it for him, and as soon as I did, he marched straight up to the stupid girl, and shot her with one of Bumblebee's plastic missiles. He's four. Good lad, especially as she's now somehow denying responsibility.
(Hampton St.Roker (has probably had your mum), Fri 6 Feb 2009, 7:38, 4 replies)

I once saw a landlord drop a highly-piled tray of glasses to the floor because he was laughing so hard.
It was my brother Mark's fault.

Mark was telling us P-Way stories. Those blokes you see in hi-vis, carrying picks beside the track as your train trundles by,* used to be called P-Way, or Permanent Way, workers.

In summer P-Way men were issued with hats with attached neck-veils to keep the sun off. Back in the 70s, Mark's foreman refused to wear his, vain as he was about his fine head of long glossy hair.

One day he was further down across the track than the others when a train went by and it took him a while to catch them up.

He seemed to be walking strangely too, holding his head on one side...

Someone had flushed the train bog as it passed him and the contents had hit him, and he had a respectably-sized turd plastered across one side of his freshly-shampooed head.

Mark nodded. 'I told him, THAT'S what the veil's for.'

And THAT'S when the tray of glasses hit the deck.

*standing with their backs to the train, if they've any sense, Mark says, in light of the above.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 6:46, Reply)

Fresh off the Boat
He was small, he was Chinese, he was singing "It's too late to apologize" by One Republic. Except it was,

"It's too rate to paro-gize, it's too raaaaaaate."

I almost died. I was laughing too hard to get out my cell phone camera, it was epic.
(anotherlogan and the whit he shites, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 5:52, 5 replies)

Pub Day!!
A few years back we started a tradition that soon snowballed into a regular group of nearly fourty regulars turning up to the pub on a Wednesday night at our local, The Telegraph Hotel in Tassie (Australia).

There have been many entertaining evenings, from a female friend who flashed her tits at a group of University students to much shouting, whistling and applause.

But the most worthy item of note was ending up with more beer than I started with after nearly breaking my arm.

Suffice to say I was very very drunk and carring a jug back to my group of fellow alcoholics when I managed to collect the corner of a seat in the walkway, I tripped flying through the air with a jug in one hand, I managed to land on the floor on one side sliding through a river of beer and landed the jug with minimal spillage on the table at the same time and knocking somebody elses jug of beer flying..

I stood up half stunned at what happened, observed the shocked individuals for who's beer I just annihilated in my beer slide of death and I felt such guilt I bough them another jug of beer which upon delivery was complimented by the group on my legendary beer landing efforts (spilt only a quarter of my jug of beer)

It seemed the oly option to sacrifice myself in an effort to retain just over half a jug of beer that i was carrying at the time. I did end up spilling the jug of the people next to us.

Consequently after buying the replacement jug for them, they bought me two jugs as a thank you for being honourable and replacing their beer saying "It was one of the funniest things they'd seen in a long time"

A large amount of bruising, completely soaked in beer but still at least a jug of free beer out of the deal! Definte WIN!
( Jimmer still not dead at, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 5:16, 4 replies)

I'm a journalist
So I've spent almost every waking hour of the past 20 years in pubs.
Some highlights:
* Man walks in and waves knife "Give me the money!!" Elderly barman produces a gun and says "Fuck off, sonny." And off he fucked.
* Six foot drunk wanker turns to four foot six petite girl and calls her a slut. She shapes up and with one punch knocks him out.
* Heavily pregnant woman with her top off, sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette, holding a glass of wine while her drunk (male) friend pulls her by the nipple until the whole saggy boob is standing out about two feet away from her body.
* Old crim playing pool and his shooter accidentally falls out of his pocket.
* Smashed detectives stumbling out of the bar into squad car, turn on siren and roar off - into a parked car.
* Seeing a fire hose turned on a group of nasty bulldykes who refused, point blank, to allow anyone else to play pool even though they were crap.
* Drug dealer walks into a bar, upends about 20 grams of coke onto a table and says "It's a present from my mother!" before walking out.
* A man wins an axe in a pub trivia comp (signed by the local woodchopping champ) and proceeds to demolish a couple of tables to cheers from all.
* ANZAC day, watching the parade on TV when one colleague turns and shouts: "This one's for grandpa!" and flattens the Japanese exchange reporter who had wandered in.
* A system of pigeon holes behind a Northern Territory bar where locals would walk in, hand over their wallet and just keep drinking until the barman told them they'd run out of cash.
* Similar system in Queensland where at least 50 ATM cards with the PIN written on in texta were kept in a shoebox, the locals would just order and drink, trusting the bar staff to do the rest.
* Sex, sex and more sex in toilet cubicles, booths, on pool tables, against the bar, behind the bar, in the coolroom, on the footpath, etc etc... including one girl giving a handjob to some bloke while her boyfriend stood on the other side of her unknowing.
* Two guys walk into a bar, announce they're here to fix the pool table, mess about with it for a while, then announce they have to take it back to the factory... they weren't really repairmen.
* The free bong available to locals at one Sydney pub.
* The modelling agency brochure which hung on the wall at another where regulars were allowed to select the new barmaids.
Oh God this could go on all day... I'll just leave you with what is undoubtedly the strangest thing I've ever seen in a bar.
Troughman.
This is a guy who used to regularly be seen around Sydney laying in the toilet trough begging everyone to piss all over him.
Think I'm kidding? Google the name.
( difficultchild, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 5:02, 8 replies)

not my local but I'm in there fairly often
In the village where I sometimes drink when I'm home from uni there are 2 people with certified downs, one of them collects glasses in a pub I drink in, the other I see around and about and have spoken to a few times. The two downies hate each other with a passion, though. One night I'm sat in the pub with a few mates when Paul* (the none glass collecting downy.) Walks into the pub. He sits down with a pint of bitter and a bag of quavers enjoying himself. James* (the glass collector) has seen this as an insult as he's walking into his place of work. Moving in on his turf. James goes over and tells him to get out. Paul having done nothing wrong says no, so James grabs Pauls pint and throws it over him. Paul reacts and punches him in the face, the two start to wrestle until they're split up by the land lord who's stood behind the bar poking them with a snooker cue. James is sent home while Paul is cleaned up and apologised to.

I've not seen anything to top that but I have other stories which I'll post later on.

*names changed to protect the innocent.
(Hitler's other ball. R soul., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 4:37, 2 replies)

Paddy’s day, Ireland.
We’re already off to a bad start. I was a man of some thirty odd summers, give or take. So, one would naturally assume that an Irishman in his thirties can handle a day of celebration with a group of old friends. You would assume. Despite my nationality, I’m not too fond of Paddy’s day celebrations, don’t get me wrong, the parades are good family fun, but the pubs are a nightmare. People throng into the pubs once they open and don’t leave until closing time. Since the smoking ban came into effect it’s a nightmare, people coming in and out the door, pissed out of their mind, and no smoke to cover the smell of farts and sweat.

I went back to university to do a postgraduate course, so I was pretty broke. I had tried the “I’ll catch you guys in the evening” excuse, but my friends weren’t so easily fooled. So, I found myself at 10 a.m. with three pints of Guinness in front of me, compliments of the lads, I don’t normally drink it, but beggars can’t be choosers. The morning progressed to afternoon (no surprises there), but the evening felt very late, it was only 7 p.m. and I was wankered. We moved about the city from crowded pub to crowded pub. I had about 15 pints of Guinness inside me at this point, festering in my gut. Then the decision was made, a few spliffs, and onwards to one of those super-pubs. Usually these sort of places are horrible, but the place in question was a cut above the rest, no drunks allowed, strictly over 23 and no chavs.

Due to the night in question the bouncers had their work cut out, so we all slipped past them on our best behavior. More pints of Guinness downed and I started to sway. I was fading fast but it was still early enough. All of the guys were seasoned Guinness drinkers, but not me. I started to produce a lot of very smelly Guinness farts. Luckily this place was big enough to take a walk around, spread the revolting love and return innocently to my friends. Suddenly I felt the mother of all farts build up, fast. It was like an ostrich egg forcing its way out.

Pop! Out it came, and then started sliding down my boxers. Do farts slide? Let me tell you, they most certainly do fucking not. “Toilets, toilets, toilets” panic stricken I waddled as fast as permissible to the toilets, please God let there be no queue. The heavens looked favorably on this poor, shit smeared cretin. There was one cubicle and it was open. I bolted the door and carefully took down my trousers. Luckily my boxers had contained most of the deluge, but it still was a disaster on the scale of Katrina. I did what any misfortune in my situation would do. Carefully slipped out of the boxers, not easily done after about 20 pints, and dropped them and their contents into the toilet. Time to survey the collateral damage. The inside of my jeans were streaked with black goo, as were my legs. Lumps of shite had slipped down to the bottom of them.
And then I checked for toilet paper. Very little, very little indeed, not enough for the job at hand, but better than nothing. I managed to clean the inside of my jeans a little with the toilet paper, but there was so much left to do. My socks, yes, I can use my socks. This was starting to come up roses, although the stench was stifling.

After using my socks, I was in a pickle; I dumped the socks down the bog and whipped off my T-shirt. I still had a shirt and jacket, so I’ll get away with it. I finished mopping up as much as I could and flushed the socks and jocks down, waited and followed with the T-shirt. I gathered my battered pride, pulled up my cack stained jeans and opened the cubicle. Luckily it was a short walk to the door, I walked a quickly out of the pub leaving a fetid trail behind me. I had tied my coat around my waist to hide the smear, but no coat could hide the smell. I took the back streets home, and did the long shameful walk home, I pity the poor bastard who would even try to mug me in this pathetic state. I had a shower, washed my clothes and went to bed.

A couple of weeks later, I got a call from a mate, he wanted to meet up for a pint. Unfortunately it was in the same pub. When we arrived I noticed that there was a large piece of board nailed across the door of the gents. His curiosity aroused, my friend piped up and asked the barman “what’s wrong with the bogs?”
The barman replied:
“Some filthy animal blocked it so badly on St. Paddy’s day that the place flooded with shite later that night. We had to get a plumber to drill down into the sewage system to find the blockage, it was so bad. The toilet itself had to be dismantled. We’re waiting for the renovation work to finish before they can be used again”
“How the fuck does somebody block up a toilet that bad?” asked my friend.
“When they wipe their arse with jocks, socks and T-shirt, and then proceed to flush them down, that’s fucking how, we let our guard down for one night and you see what sort of filthy chav cunts come in.” said the barman
“fucking animals” said my friend.
“fucking animals” said the barman.
“fucking animals” I mumbled.
(knackerz is skinning up, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 4:28, 1 reply)

My old local, one of the standard pub names in Britain
My local is shut down now, but I spent many happy days there including the Millenium New Years Eve.
That's probably enough of my 'them were the days' nonsense.

Let me cite a few examples of banter

1. The landlord was a humourless tosser who tried to enforce obscure legislation by leaving laminated notices at the bar stating that "swearing is prohibited" etc.
Now this isn't funny in itself but combined with the (dubious) fact that he lacked any tact or common sense made for some farcial moments.

Some of the locals liked to sniff illegal powder in the toilets as is the norm nowadays. During the day on Sundays there tended not to be many women in so some of the locals had took to using the womens toilet for their habit as it had carpets, mirrors i.e. the works!
Most of the guys made crappy excuses while heading to the womens toilet like "I prefer the wallpaper in here" in full earshot of the landlord who never clicked once. Trust me if he did click they would have been barred.

2. One of the 'geezers' in his 50s who made the excuse about powdering his nose in the toilet in example 1 did something quite similar. My mate was in the pub just after lunch time when Archie (his name) headed out to get some 'fresh air'.
Fifteen seconds later he was counting cash beside an open boot in the carpark.

3. Lock in's involving grown men mimicking the Dirty Dancing scenes where you jump into their arms at shoulder length. Impressive when some of the blokes are 15st plus.
(muzzvsworld, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 4:08, Reply)

Japanese pubs
are kind of non-existent; they have yatai (food/drink stalls) and various small food places that advertise ramen but are frequently just occupied by japanese businessmen drinking shochu and sake, but nothing like a proper pub (usually).

Although there is a rather nice british pub in Hakata selling Guinness, Strongbow and Newcastle Brown Ale. They even do proper fish and chips. Mint. Plus, the Japanese like nomihoudai - all you can drink deals- for about 1000-2000 yen. Also, in Japan, drinking on the street isn't illegal, so there is nothing inherently wrong with buying convenience store cheap booze and sitting in the street drinking like chavs.

I miss going to the pub :(
(Nikkusama, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 3:49, 1 reply)

I can't resist telling this one
Though I'm not sure I can do it justice.



My friend R is quite a pool player. In fact, he's very, very good. A few years ago, he was with his then girlfriend in a pub near the Scottish border. His gf, alas, wasn't versed in the art that is pub pool and requested that he teach her. The locals took exception to this, and demanded that "winner stays on" and insisted that he would have to beat all comers before he could play a quiet game with his girlfriend.

So he did. He won about fifteen games in a row.

Until the last man stepped up.

He had no hand left hand.

"I can't play you!" quoth R. "You've no' got a hand!"








The one-handed man responded by opening his pool cue case, removing a strange looking attachment, removing his hand and screwing a rest onto his stump.

He then proceeded to demolish R without any effort at all.

Genius.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 3:00, Reply)