drunk depressed merkin
Myself and a group of friends were in a quiet pub having some mid week drinks to cope with the high levels of stress that undergraduate students have to cope with.

As the night wore on the bar got quieter and quieter which was in stark contrast to the lone American at the bar who was becoming louder and more emotional by the minute.

Our group felt sorry for the bar staff who looked very uncomfortable but we were certainly enjoying hearing about how he didn't want a girlfriend just yet, he'd only had sex once and regretted it. He told his mum about it and though she was disappointed with him she was glad he'd decided to try being celibate again.

The conversation at our table started up again and it wasn't until a while later we realised the poor guy had burst into a fit of tears at the bar. Getting drunk was obviously his way of letting it all out.

Concerned but wanting to remain stoically British about the situation we didn't really know what to do. Then Colin decided to go up to him and see if he was ok.

"Are you alright?"

"It's so cold and wet in this country!" spluttered the now angry yank. "And there's never any sun. Where's the fucking sun!?"

The guy had a point. It was a small village on the east coast of Scotland and it was always windy, cold and wet. More to the point, we were only a couple of months into the first semester and already it was pretty much dark a little after 15:00.

We felt this guy's pain. He was clearly new to this land and thousands of miles from home. But sometimes you just hear something that cuts through all that and you can't help but laugh. Lots.

"Well, this is Scotland." said Colin, "What did you expect?"



"I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LIKE BRAVEHEART!"

Scotland is not like Braveheart. My only suggestion is that Hollywood films contain warnings for Americans about how they have no grip on reality in the slightest. And allow me to conclude with a joke from Frankie Boyle. "When they were making Braveheart people were saying Mel Gibson would never make a convincing Scotsman. And now look at him: a racist alcoholic."
( djtrialprice, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:27, 8 replies)

Reminded of this by The Pollitt's story below
About ten years ago now, I was working for a company based just north of Oxford Street in central London. One Friday a short while after I'd started working there I'd wandered down to HMV to do a bit of shopping during lunchtime and bought a handful of CD's - Soulfly, Led Zepellin (Remasters), Marilyn Manson, possibly one or two others. When I got back to the office my new colleagues were interested to know what I'd bought (finding out about the new boy) so I showed them and as a result my ROCK! background came out, much to their amusement.

That evening we went to the pub round the corner for after work drinkies. Whilst we were sitting there drinking, we noticed a pair of aging rockers sitting over pints at the table just over from us. At least in their late 40s, they still had the wavy hair and dress-sense of a long-forgotten 80's glam band. Plus the eyeliner, of course.
My colleagues thought this very amusing. Having learned about my musical tastes I got a fair amount of ribbing along the sort of 'They look like your sort of people, David, why not go and drink with them, ha ha ha.' I took this with my usual good-humoured badinage ('Piss off.'), but I couldn't help the feeling that I did know the two in the corner. I couldn't help but wonder - did I know them from my days at Jillys/Derby Rock House/Nottingham Rock City? Had I been clubbing with them in the past? God, I knew I knew them from somewhere. But where? I tried to place their faces all night.

Anyway, I left the pub, and hopped on the train home. As I sat on the train I browsed through my new purchases and the CD sleeve notes, and it was about that moment that it hit me.
I did recognise the two guys in the pub.

They were Robert Plant and Jimmy Page.

I looked at the (unsigned) copy of Remasters in my hand.

Damn.
(davywavy, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:26, 2 replies)

Disco Dave
Disco Dave shit himself and carried on drinking.

That is all.
( WOLF .™, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:23, 5 replies)

Rugeley Pubs
Oh God.. where do I start?

Rugeley pubs were the roughest pubs on the planet, in the days before smoking bans and the rapid shutdown/restaurantification of the brewing trade.

Take, for example, the Globe, locally known as "The Stranglers Arms" due to being the location a local prostitute was last seen alive. So rough, that for a while they went over to plastic glasses. Or the Shrew, infamous for it's part in the "Palmer the Poisoner" case subsequently filmed with Keith Allen as Dr. Palmer, but in my time well-known for underage drinking and the start of many a teenage pregnancy.

Or how about the Tree? Kept by the father of my schoolfriend, this was where the real hardcases drank in the 70s. My father once went in there with my uncle John from Cannock, who was only about 5 foot 1. Some local 6 foot tall hardcase with something to prove decided to make life hard for uncle John - the usual "shortarse" jokes, etc. John ignored him, which irked the hardcase, leading him to grab John by the shoulder.

Big mistake.

According to my father, he'd never seen such a display. Uncle John turned round and calmly floored the hardcase with one punch, knocking him unconscious.

The whole pub came to a standstill.

Uncle John turned to the landlord and asked "Am I barred?"

"Self-defence" said the Landlord, and everything went back to normal.
( Stevedix http://www.stevedix.de/blog, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:21, Reply)

I've done my time in pubs...lots of them...
...one being in Bristol. Many good times were had there, as were, sadly, many embarrassing times.

My car at the time was a Rover 420 GSi. Yeah, I know, crap. Still, it was MY car, I love it and I'd spent a lot of money on it.

It was the height of summer, beer was flowing, banter was flying and spirits were being massages and encouraged by the brilliant atmosphere....until it happened.

A red Toyota Landcruiser sped into the car park (which was clearly visible from the bar) and damn near removed the drivers side from my beloved Rover. No car had been taken to park this Chelsea tractor, and as such my car had very nearly become a victim.

The chap strode in, big fella too, long curly hair, bit pikey looking with his checkered shirt and cotton trousers. His girl-in-tow looked far to good to be with him too, all contributing factors to my rage...

"Excuse me..." Splurts I...

"Would you mind being a bit more careful when you park you're twattingly daft truck? It might not look much, but the car you nearly squashed is mine, and I'm quite fond of it."

He looked sheepishly at me....

"I'm, I'm sorry....I"

He then mumbled his order, a pint a Butcombe and a drink for the lady, and then went and sat outside.

My boss strides over....

"Pollitt, you're a tit."

"What? Why? People driving like that piss me right..."

"That was Robert Plant, you fuckwit. Well done."

Needless to say, I hid in the kitchen until he left. Oh, and if you don't know who Robert Plant is...Google him.
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:16, 4 replies)

I've probably told this one before but it's my favourite bar story
Me and my friends (a bunch of crusty grebos to a man) decided that for a bit of fun we'd go out to Wolverhampton for the night, but to try something different. We dressed in our best shirts, shined our shoes, applied hairgel and decided to see what life was like in the "trendy" bars we usually eschewed.

Our skills at going undercover as "Kevs" were woeful - we stuck out like sore thumbs to the point the bouncer described my friend Si as "that one with the shirt" in a bar full of men wearing shirts. The only upshot was that the bar we were in was having a Star Wars night and all the staff were dressed up.

I sidled up to the bar hoping to get served by one of the lucious Leias, but instead found myself confronted with a blond-wigged, judo-suited Luke. I ordered four pints, he fetched them for me and told me the price. Quick as a flash (and grinning like an idiot) I waved my hand in a mysterious way and said "It's okay, I've already paid you for them." He said, "You what?" and I repeated it. He said, "Oh, right" and walked away to serve someone else.

I did the Jedi mind trick on Luke Skywalker. I'd just like to repeat that so that my eight year-old self can feel justifiably proud of his latter-day incarnation: I did the Jedi mind trick on Luke Skywalker.

I'd only meant it as a joke
( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:07, 13 replies)

Standing at the bar one day...
...waiting to be served. I sensed some movement around my feet, and looked down to see a fella squatting there, trousers around his ankles, coiling one out. And you know what, I'd been waiting so long to get a fucking drink, I just turned away and carried on trying to catch the barmaid's eye.

It was that sort of pub.
( reallywittyname veraciously conspues lexiphanicism on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:58, 3 replies)

There she blows...
When I was 19, I worked in a cocktail bar in a Nightclub in Frodsham - if you know Frodsham, you know the place I'm on about.

It opened at 8pm, but was normally dead until 10.30-ish, when the pubs started letting out. But this one Friday night, they had 2 coach parties in - a Stag and a Hen. This was a bit of a pain in the arse - the normal slow start went out the window, as everyone came through to our bar (given the main room was dead), and set about getting shit-faced.

After about an hour's solid boozing, a Tarzan-o-gram came in and did his thing. The whole bar watched, had a good laugh, and then it came to an end. At which point, three of the Hen party grabbed Tarzan (who was by now down to his loincloth), whilst the Hen ripped the loincloth off, pulled his flesh-coloured thong down and started giving the guy a blow-job. Fuck me, the place went mad - we had people standing on the BAR to watch, the crowd was so deep (I should know, I was one of them).

The Bouncers heard about this, came racing in and split everyone up (Tarzan looked relieved and disappointed at the same time). Given it was the Hen, the Bouncers told her to behave herself (they'd normally have flung her out).

More cocktails get consumed.

About 20 minutes later, the Stag party start singing "Get yer tit's out, get yer tit's out, GET YER TIT'S OUT FOR THE LADS" to the Hen - who obliges, and runs round flashing everyone.

The Bouncers roll back in, tell the Stag's to shut up, and tell the Hen, in no uncertain terms, that if she whips 'em out again, she's outta there (a shame, I felt, as she had what I understand thse days is referred to as a 'splendid rack').

Not 20 mins later (so it's not even 10pm yet), 4 of the Hen party make a daring raid into the Stag group's part of the Bar, and get the kecks off the Stag, at which point the Hen runs over and starts blowing the guy. Cue the same response as last time, everyone back up on the bar, the Bouncers come flying in, only to face some fierce opposition, as some of the Stag group throwing punches to hold them off so the Hen can finish what she's started.

End result: the Hen, the Stag, and about half of each group get flung out to spend the rest of the night sitting on coaches in the car park waiting for the remains of their groups to come out.

Happy days...
(Apathyman Prepare to be underwhelmed..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:56, 6 replies)

There's always one...
I've worked in the same pub for 2 years now and it's got it's fair share of special cases all of which hold a special place in my heart. The outright winner has to be Elizabeth AKA "Crazy coffee lady" named as such because she comes in everyday, orders a coffee, goes to the loo, returns, downs the scalding hot beverage and leaves. The reason why these minute long visits are the highlight of my day is that Elizabeth has voices in her head... She has 3 personalities; Elizabeth, Lizzy and Margaret. Now, Elizabeth and Lizzy don't get on at all but both will unite against the ever troublesome Margaret. This leads to rather heated debates which will often end in shouting phrases such as, "NO, I DON'T KNOW WHERE MAIDSTONE IS!" Considering Elizabeth will sit on the leather sofa in the pub even if it is already occupied it leads to general hilarity everytime.

Jade Goody performing this year's panto!
Oh No she isn't!
(Sir David Von Chodesworth can't find any audiobook transcripts, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:55, 1 reply)

Snarf
.
Seeing that I've spent a huge proportion of my waking adult life in pubs (working away from home is a bitch) you'd think that I'd have loads of stories about pub life. Well I do - but I've posted most of the best of them on B3ta before. So I'll tell you about Snarf.

Snarf was the big, daft lovable Alsatian that used to live in my local back home in the village. I knew Snarf from when he was a pup, when Uncle Fester, the landlord, first got him. As I used to do all of the pubs computer and technical work, Snarf knew me well. I used to fight with him, first as a pup, then as a full grown dog. I'd slap him a few times. He'd growl ,bark and jump at me biting me with just enough force to leave marks but not enough to hurt. We got on.

Then I walked in the pub one day and Fester looked at me with a lugubrious expression.

"What's up Fester" I asked.

"My dog's gay" he said.

"What?" I exclaimed "How do you know that?"

"Cos he loves the cock" grunted Fester

Then he left the bar and came back a minute later with a dried bulls penis. You can buy them at pet stores.

"Watch this" he said and threw the bulls penis to Snarf.

"Look at him" said Fester disgustedly.

To be honest, he had a point. Snarf was slobbering all over the cock, nibbling the end gently and sucking what juices he could glean from the now glistening phallus. Then again, when he grabbed the end in his side teeth and shattered it with a mighty crunch, I think he still had some technique to work on before he'd be welcome in the gay doggie community.

There was one more bit of evidence that Snarf was Gay. Me.

Since I used to fight with him when he was a pup, Snarf always liked me coming in the pub. Probably about one week out of three he'd catch me off guard.I'd be standing, or sitting at the bar when he'd sneak up behind me and bite me, hard, on the arse and then bounce around the room, barking joyfully:

"Got you! Got you! Got you on the arse!!"

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:47, 1 reply)

Why do you beat me up, buttercup baby…

Sooo many of my previous efforts have been on the subject of pubs…but I’m not a big fan of pearoasts and constantly fight the temptation to dig up a story which you've already suffered once before.

The reason I am saying this is because I can’t remember if I’ve already told this…Apologies if I have, but I’m going to carry on anyway…

‘Wavy lines’ aplenty to the end of 2006…and my crap cover version band are in full, busy flow – we know the set like the back of each other’s hands and could play through it utterly shitfaced...which was handy, because that's what we often did.

We had a few regular haunts but were always keen to get new mugs…sorry, ‘gigs’…and we were informed that our services might be required at a ‘Firkin’ pub in the middle of Coventry town centre.

Being conscientious drunkards we decided to go on a ‘reconnaissance piss up’ beforehand to check the place out.

It quickly passed our discerningly high standards…it sold beer. On the weekday evening we went, there were only a few students rattling round the place. The landlady seemed like a nice enough girl, if a little young and naive to be running a town centre pub (she offered us top whack money and free drinks), but overall, everything was fine and the gig was set up.

That Friday, as we arrived with our gear, the atmosphere was strange. Yes, there were the expected few student types about, but the place was heaving with rough-looking Goths, Emos and Skankheads…within 30 seconds I was nostril-deep in piercings, black trenchcoats and gravity defying hairdos.

I have no problem with these types whatsoever (I used to dabble in these fads when I was younger). I did however, fear somewhat that our happy, foot-tapping bop-a-lot 60’s pop sing-along set would not be their particular cup of herbal tea sprinkled with magic mushrooms.

As we shifted about nervously we were approached by a man who, judging by the response of the barstaff, looked to be in charge. “Where’s the landlady?”, we tentatively enquired.

“There’s been a ‘situation’…we’ve had to let her go” said the podgy, stern looking gent.

At this point I was expecting (and almost looking forward to) the: ‘Now get your stuff, and fuck off!’ speech, but the stand-in landlord continued:

“She’d been skimming off the takings for months…blagged thousands” (not quite so naive then) “But it’s not your problem lads, you can still play”

Aww…shit

Then, with a facial expression that alone sent my spider senses tingling into ‘fucksocks’ mode, he said: “It’s just that…she didn’t exactly leave on ’good terms’…She’s promised to get ‘the lads’ to come and smash the place up…tonight!”

My insight had indeed served me well…and ‘fucksocks’ mode was well and truly engaged...with a hearty side order of 'crikeybuggeration'.

We weighed up our options. Bravely, my initial gut reaction was to bollock the fuck out of the place so quickly that there would be a Pooflake shaped hole in the wall.

But, strangely, and after a pint to pursuade us, we decided to stay (we had unpacked everything by now anyway). We sat down with our drink and discussed what we would do when it kicked off, how we would communicate mid-song if anybody saw any trouble…what gear we could grab and still swiftly make it out of there alive…all with a fixed, glazed gurn that was a combination of fake bravado, alcohol fuelled petulance and the clear and present danger of a monumental brown trout nudging in my cowardly squit-factory.

All too soon, it was time to go on. The soundcheck was non-existent. Brushing our way past the white-faced scowling masses we began our set…and I was quickly given a lesson about prejudging stereotypes.

Every single person got up, smiled, danced and sang along. They were fucking brilliant. Applause and cheers rang out as we played – the drinks flowed, the atmosphere was fantastic and I can’t describe the joyous relief as I realised that everything was going to be alright…

Then, just as I was beginning to enjoy myself…they walked in.

Six menacing blokes, built like the kind of concrete bunker you would construct if a brick shithouse just wasn’t sufficiently sturdy enough for your faecal needs. They bought a round of drinks and sat down at the back as the place fell silent. The band looked at each other and thought ‘This is it’. I clutched my guitar, then glanced down at the set list, saw the next song, and started to play…

The song was ‘Build me up, buttercup’.

All heads turned towards the group of hard-arsed headcases. Word had obviously got round what was going to happen. But as I watched…one of the mens’ granite-faced grimaces slowly melted into a smile, and then he began to sing along! The whole bunch of musclebound mentalists then visibly relaxed as they got more and more swept away by the carefree atmosphere.

Within 10 minutes, they were up and dancing with everybody else. The night was a total success!

Eventually, after a few encores, the gig ended and gaggles of people approached us to thank us…who then quickly parted like the Red Sea as this hulking man who appeared to be the ringleader of the wrecking crew walked up to me.

Towering over me as I quivered in fear, the half-man, half-gorilla boomed; “You guys...were fucking brilliant tonight mate”

“W-w-w-w-well thank you“ I stammered.

He then continued: “Hey, tell you what, It’s my dad’s birthday coming up soon, He'd love your band...have you got a business card?”

With my hands still trembling I handed him a card.

His face then changed from a smile, to an angry sneer contorted with rage as he bellowed: “OI!, YOU CUNTS!...”

(At this point I deduced that the appropriate course of action was to cry, run, shit my pants or a combination of all three), before he turned and continued:

“…Come and give these lads a hand”.

The turd was schlurped back up my arse as I realised he was talking to his mates, who then cheerily got up, and helped us carry our equipment to the car, each of them complementing us on how they hadn’t had such a great night in ages.

The place soon cleared as we packed up and after a while it was just us left. As the last bit of kit was packed the ringleader asked us: “Are you guys off now?”

“Yes…cheers” I mewed meekly.

“Righto then, Seeya! ” he said with a grin, a wink and a wave...

I then watched in disbelief as he picked up a huge lump of wood from a broken crate on the floor, strolled happily back into the pub…and started to smash the total shit out of the place with his mates.

We drove off just as a chair was thrown through one of the windows.

I learned a lot that day… about the power of music…and the simple truth that everybody really just wants to have a good time.

I went back the following morning to discover the place was totally destroyed…but not one person had been hurt. I shudder to think what would have happened if it had kicked off when they first walked in.

Mind you, the bloke never did book us for his dad’s birthday though. Cunt.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:45, 13 replies)

Roughest bar I've ever been in
*insert Star Wars related gag here*

Love,

L. Skywalker.
( SpikeyPickle wishes he was mabazaritchie, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:42, Reply)

Ahhhh... The Crossways
It had nothing going for it, except that they didn't care that you were in school uniform and just wanted a pre-GCSE pint.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:39, Reply)

I know something really awesome happened in the pub once
but I just don't remember what it was. Damned booze.
( Mr Gear the gay-maker, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:33, Reply)

Age 15, trying to get served
We dressed as 'adult' as we could, half a dozen of us in our Cadet Forces cammo jackets and marched into a city centre pub in the middle of Lincoln.

Ian the Shed had actual, manly bum-fluff on his chin, so he went first, put on his deepest voice and said: "Pint of your best, please".

An, as if by magic, Ian the Shed got served in a pub. Real beer. In a pub. Wow.

Gaz the Granny-Shagger went second, on the strength that even though he was underage, he knew LOADS of pensionable women, and something might have rubbed off. Pint of lager. Bingo.

Then: Knee-high Roger. A fifteen-year-old, trapped in the body of a nine-year-old who once confessed that he had wanked thirty-seven times in an hour.

"Cup of beer, please mister"

"OUT"

Fussocks.
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:31, 1 reply)

The Stripper and the Retard
I was out seeing a good friend of mine, about an hours drive away, and it wasn't long before we were laughing and reminiscing about the good old days.

He suggested we visited a pub nearby called "The Prince of Wales", not only for their beer, but for their entertainment too ! I had a thirst on, so agreed, not knowing what the entertainment was, I was content that I was in the company of an old friend, and thats all that mattered.

The pub was a bit of a dive to say the least, pretty dark and dingy, the pool table had seen much better days, but the place was rammed - mostly with old men, or men you are likely to meet hiding in a bush. But the beer was good, so we managed to grab a table and waited for the "entertainment".

It wasn't long before music started and a beautiful buxom blonde came out, wearing a stars and stripes bikini.

It wasn't long before she was out of it too..

Jiggling about and dipping her breasts in punters pints, this girl was really going for it ! Then she climbed onto the pool table and started knocking balls into the pockets with her tits.. She really knew how to put on a good show, and it appeared she was more than a little comfortable with the dirty old men having a good grope!

She made her way to the bar, where there stood an old man, and what was quite obviously his retarded son.

Now I don't know if it was pity, or quite what she was thinking - maybe she thought, there was never going to be a chance of the lad ever having a relationship..knowing the feel or smell of a real woman..

She dipped two fingers inside her and said "Here you are.. What do you think of this"? as she shoved her wet fingers under the retards nose.

His reply, couldn't be scripted..and had the whole pub doubled over..

"SMELLS LIKE MY SISTER" he shouted.

I laughed so hard, I wee'd a little.
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:31, 5 replies)

Sex on the floor.
In the 80's I lived in Sheffield and most pubs would be packed on a Sunday lunctime. For 2 reasons.

1. Free Yorkshire puddings on the bar to go with your pint.

2. Strippers.

Despite being 21 years old I was still very naive about certain things and found it incredible that all these pubs had strippers on - especially Sunday lunchtime.

One Sunday at a pub on the Eccleshall Road I went in with a mate, got a pint and wandered over to look at the entertainment. It was rather busy so I did what everyone else was doing and stood on a chair to get a better view. The stripper looked about 40 (which I now find an attractive age in a woman :)) and she had grabbed some skinny 18 year old to work on her "act".

This involved a lot of baby oil and talcum powder which quickly started to look like she was greased up for a cross Channel swim. The poor lad on the stage with her started to get a bit carried away and before you knew it they were at it like rabbits.

Despite being appalled by this louche display we somehow found our way back there most Sundays!
( Blackdogmanguitar is out with Fat Larry's Jazz Band on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:26, Reply)

NSFW? I was AT work!
Should alzheimers ever take my history, my family, my mind - I pray I'm left with this one memory. And some tissues.

Years back when I was about 19, I worked in a pub with a restaurant attached. Nothing fancy but certainly no dive.

This one night the restuarant was booked up for some kind of do for the local all-male Round Table - they'd been before and it was always dull and they were always arrogant, pretentious cocks. This time, for some highly secret reason, we'd been advised to cover any windows to ensure privacy, so after closing all the curtains and pinning table cloths over the glass doors, we were ready.

After the meal and faux-managerial bullshit speeches, the entertainment starts. A stripper! Mid-30's with huge tits and a face like a slapped arse. She did her bit then another came on by herself and did her thing - an incredibly hot girl I'd been to college with a couple of years before and probably had at least fifty wanks over.

The girls were nude but nothing poronographic. Tasteful, perhaps. Even so my life was now complete. The show eventually finished and I served drinks while trying not to nudge the barmaid in the arse with my subsiding phallus.

A fair bit of whispering and activity amongst the cocks later, they all sit back down, the lights dim and suddenly the women appear 'on-stage' together. Making out. Awesome!

Suddenly the girl I knew, lay on her back, flipped her legs in the air and pulled off her pants before spreading her legs wide. Super Awesome!

My jaw was hanging, my eye's popping out of my skull - then the older woman proceeded to slowly pull a two foot string of pearls out out the young girls pussy and push them into a young guys gaping mouth. Ultra Awesome!

I swear I heard the sound of 40 penises tearing through underwear.

By now, no-one was interested in buying drinks, so I sat on the floor and made myself comfortable (well, as comfortable as sitting cross-legged on the floor with an erection gets) - 3 feet away from the show and directly facing the hot girl's pussy. I had the best seat in the house - and I was being paid for it!

There followed another 30 mintues of full-on lesbian hardcore action - with tongues, dildos, baby oil and fresh cream. Mega Awesome!

Apologies for length. And for ejaculating in your pint glass, sir.
(tinpixel, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:14, Reply)

Snake in a pub
In the early eighties whilst down in Plymouth visiting his folks, my Dad had popped off to the pub- most likely to avoid having to read yet another Thomas the tank engine story to me. The pub was a singularly unremarkable affair populated with a mix of civilians and Royal Navy.

On this evening, proceedings were being unexpectedly livened up by a shabby looking man in trenchcoat moving from table to table, whipping out a live snake and watching the reaction of the patrons. This curious form of entertainment was going relatively well until he sidled up to a table with two marines having a quiet chat.

The shabby snake handler thrust the reptile at the two gents as he'd done at the other tables. Alas, there was to be no recoiling here as one of the marines leaned forward and bit the snake's head off. He then extracted the head of the snake from his mouth and placed it in the shell shocked handler's pocket before resuming his conversation. Protests from the handler that the snake was expensive fell on unsympathetic ears and he left with his snake in kit form shortly after.

Length? About three feet long and an inch across.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:11, 2 replies)

A Big Bendy Educational Thing....

I was saving up to buy a house and get married, so as a niave, innocent 18 year old Sparklet I took a second job in a city centre bar. I should have know there was something amiss, when a glass broke during my first shift and the manageress shoved me smartly under the counter, ordering me to "Stay here and wait for the Cheering!" I worked there for three months, and in that time..

1) The landlord, a man named Tracy only ever retaliated violently to a customer once. At a fancy dress night. When he was dressed as Andy Pandy. He punched the bloke's lights out. Five feet nothing of angry Brummie in an Andy Pandy outfit..

2) Worked with the first gay man I'd every (Knowingly) met, a lovely big brick-outhouse constructed bloke, with a penchant for dressing as a serving wench, and referring to himself as Camp David...

3) Have been offered (All from one bloke's pockets, and a small bag) Half a sheep, a calculator, oral sex, a quarter of resin, amyl nitrate and a small dog. In one evening.

4) Been waylaid early doors by Connie, the local black-belt mentalista, with her countless bags of teddies, big smiley face and appalling smell, she tried to get me to buy some condoms from her..

5) Was shocked and concerned that the two new barmaids had been in the gents for quite some time, it turned out that they were "on the Game" and using the boozer as a warm indoor venue for their trade.

6) Went out after work to a club the manageress knew, and got covered in some blokes blood, all over my pale yellow skirt. It would have ended better if the Ladies loo door locked, and I could manage to wash it out in cold water without sundry blokes coming in to powder their noses, and offering to help me dry it.


Funny thing is, this was a smart wine bar, we did cocktails, and food...


You never know, do you?

*Edit.. the Title was rubbish so i changed it, and jiggled it about a bit..
(Beer Elf Thought this was like a campfire, anyhow, on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:11, Reply)

Solo
A man on his own, in a pub, is a beautiful thing. He can come in, purchase a pint, sit down, read the paper, watch the Telly, chat with the regulars, the staff, the landlord, relax, put his feet up, watch the world go by. Its a beautiful, beautiful thing.

A woman on her own in the pub is a whore.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:06, 9 replies)

I like red ones

No, wait, that's pubes
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 11:06, 4 replies)

Yates, Portsmouth
Out with a bunch of mates, having a few bevvies before moving on(its expensive in there), I looked over to an altercation suddening happening between what looked like 2 women and a bloke.

It turned out to be between one of the women and said bloke, as the other woman was being fingered on the table in full view of the bouncers.

The bouncers then let it heat up for a bit before chucking them all out *over the top of people coming in the door*.

I'll never forget the noise of the 3 people hitting the floor outside.
(Ethelred is watching cheese grow, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:48, Reply)

Burned hair smells funny.
The ''king'' of our local pub was the chap who sat nearest the bar. Until recently he was there every day 11-11. If his pint was getting low another was ready on the bar for when he finished and paying was done at his leisure. A real legend.
One day we were sat smoking and drink in the same room as him (pre smoking ban). He came over and asked if he could borrow a fag. We all liked this chap so seveal packs were offered up to him. He quickly took one from my pack and another from my friends, he lit mine and put it behind his ear and then lit the other and wandered off lighting the second. He sat for a good while smoking with the other burning in his hair. Eventually he gave up an took it out.
(colonelc81 100% Nylon, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:45, 1 reply)

Bad Dog ! ! !

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa Haaaaaayyyyyyyyyy!!!!

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa Haaaaaayyyyyyyyyy!!!!

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

This is the sound you'd have heard spewing out of a certain pub in Manchester circa 1993-96.

It was my local, a lovely little place named The Cattlemarket. One of the fellas who endured us stinky student types and ventured into the place for his evening constitutional was an old boy with a dog. A great big fucking powerful Alsatian dog.

Now, this dog had a very special trick that I've never seen any other dog perform in my long and illustrious career of pub-going since.

Allow me to explain...

Picture the scene...

A row of pissed students armed with cameras lining one side of the pub, cameras poised and ready.

A young lady walks in for a quick drink before going off clubbing to one of the God-awful 2 Unlimited-playing clubs that pocked that great city like a terrible disease at the time.

The young lady would go to the bar and order a drink.

And the old boy with the Alsatian would give the signal to the dog, who would leave his place at his master's side, pad over behind the young girl and...

...very quickly jump up, grasp the back of the girl's skirt in his teeth, and pull down...

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa Haaaaaayyyyyyyyyy!!!!

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Jesus, I must've had the most extensive photo collection of girls arses in the entire Greater Manchester area...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:44, 1 reply)

Sorry.
This seems like as good a time as any to apologise to the the employees of The Queen of Hearts, Fallowfield for the night in 1994 when they would have found my shit covered underwear shoved behind the toilet.


That said, you only have yourself to blame for serving me 15 pints of gut rotting bitter and not preventing the toilet roll in the gents from running out.

It also seems like a good time to say to my good friend Katharine who was working the bar there that very evening, the reason I looked uncomfortable when you told me that 'someone had fucking shat themselves and left their pants in the toilet apparently' was that, yes, I already knew.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:43, 9 replies)

don't look back in anger
when i was 18, i worked evenings in a lovely old pub - sadly now the victim of a ghastly refurb - in stockport called the elizabethan. they ripped the piss out of me for being too posh, and sang "common people" at me from time to time, but it was all good natured, and i thought most of them were great.

one night, i came to work and there was much excitement from the staff and regulars, because liam gallagher was in with his mates. sure enough, he came up to the bar shortly afterwards, and asked me for 4 jack daniels shots and a bottle of coke. i asked him for his autograph and, despite the fact that he had given out about 50 autographs already on his quiet night out, he bantered about "only if i can sign your chest", wrote his name on my shirt, and was generally very complimentary and polite. he and his mates stayed until last orders, and about every half an hour, they got another round of 4 JDs and coke.

that was it. that was all they did. at 11pm, they said goodnight, and left on time.

the next day, it was all over the newspapers that liam gallagher had caused carnage on a wild night out in the pub. one of the regulars had rung the papers and sold them a load of ropey old bollocks about how liam had been snorting coke off the bar, causing fights, smashing fruit machines, breaking up furniture... there wasn't a word of truth in it. i was really shocked that people would do that, just to get a bit of attention, and/or cash. liam gallagher rang the manager to complain when he saw it, and said that he had been drinking there since he was 16 (the legalities seemed to escape him), and that he'd never set foot in there again.

never did find out who did it, but it was one of the first times i realised: people can be right cunts sometimes.
( rachelswipe with a fork, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:37, 1 reply)

When working as a barmaid...
I was being hassled by a drunken moron of a scally. He was becoming increasingly aggressive (I even had to close the hatch - we never closed the hatch) and I was starting to worry.
Then he started his rant. There were no gaps between his words, so it was a bit like that Pepsi advert, you know the one: "lipsmackinthirstquenchin" etc etc.
"Eh you ye bitch I know it was you who refused me that drink I saw ye go up ter the manager before pretendin you wuzn't talkin bout me but ye was I should jump over that baaaar and do you in ye know ye fucking bitch you look like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction THAT'S A COMPLIMENT BY THE WAY ye snotty fuckin who d'ye think yer aaaare"
and then he left.
I didn't thank him for the compliment. I was too stunned.

Have you noticed that 'barmaid' comes up as 'carnage' on predictive text.

That was my first post. Go easy on me. Or don't. That might be fun too...
( Roota zweeeeeoooooowm, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:31, 7 replies)

New Year's Eve
I was behind the bar one New Year's Eve.

Comment has been passed before, by various people, with regards to my hair. It's a bit on the long and shaggy side, and some would maintain that, despite me being rather tall and quite broad of shoulder, it makes me look a bit effeminate. (www.b3ta.com/questions/cringe/post314605)

As the evening wore on, and people got progressively more drunk (even the bar staff were allowed a few pints that night - Keith, you were an awesome landlord...), I eventually found, at the bar, two humanoids of the distinctly male persuasion, both of whom bore more than a passing resemblance to the fearsome bastard offspring of Ross Kemp and a pork pie.

So I go to serve them.
"Yes, gents?"
"You wanna gerra haircut, mate. You look like a girl."
(Musn't be rude to the customer...)
"Haha, yeah, maybe next year. Now then, what can I get you?"
"Two double Baileys, please, mate."

...
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:29, 4 replies)

I'm afraid I am going to start with a Pearoast, in case anyone missed it first time round.

"I don't really mean to be too harsh on Essex, I'm actually quite protective of it in reality.

But sometimes you just have to shake your head and accept it for what it is, good bad and ugly.

There used to be a 'country club' down at Pipps Hill, on the outskirts of Basildon (it's been built over now with a leisure park, nick named, I kid you now, Bas-Vegas).

And next to the club there was a pub called 'The Golfers Arms'.

I worked there for a bit between leaving uni and getting a 'proper' job.

There are no two ways about it, the pub was a dive of the highest order. We'd get all of societies flotsam & jetsam parading through.

But, taking the biscuit for the most common act I ever saw anyone perform was the denim miniskirted stilletoed peroxide blond mutton dressed as lamb who flashed her gash at all and sundry while playing pool one Sunday afternoon.

I stood and watched in horror as her and her knuckle dragging boyfriend went out the back door in the dark by the lake and came back 10 minutes later looking extremely flustered.

Now, in all honesty, I can understand that some people get turned on by exhibitionism, I can understand that some people get turned on by outdoor sex, and I can understand that some people get horny and want sex right there, right then, wherever there and then may be.

But what I can't understand, what I refuse to think about in any degree of depth.

Is why the hell they had to take the pool cue with them."
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 10:24, 4 replies)