A man walks into a bar
with three little ducks following closely behind him.

The barman looks up at him and says, 'Sorry mate, you can't bring those in here, it's a health and saftey issue.'

Upset, the man replies, 'What if I could prove to you that these are no ordinary ducks? What if I were to tell you that they are magic, talking ducks?' The barman stares back, bemused, 'Go on, ask them anything you like.'

The barman decides to humour the obvious nutter, walks around the bar and leans down to the first duck, 'Hello little duck,' he says, feeling ridiculous, 'What's your name, and what have you been doing today?'

To the barman's amazement, the duck replies, 'My Name is Huey, and I've had a lovely day going in and out of puddles.'

The barman is astonished, takes a step back, and in the hope that the first was just a fluke, he asks the second duck the same question,
'My name's Duey,' says the second duck, 'and I've had a lovely day going in and out of puddles.'

'Blimey,' says the barman, and he turns to the third duck, 'I suppose your name is Louie, and you've had a lovely day going in and out of puddles too?'

The third duck looks up sadly and says, 'No, my name is Puddles, and I've had a fucking awful day.'

sorry if you've heard it before, I love this joke
( Bert Monkeysex is waiting for the mods to delete him, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:24, 2 replies)

In the pub
I saw a guy, and his face was like THAT big. He didn't like it, but who did? she wouldn't buy me a pint, because he was racism. I stole four red pens from work so i could finish my dragon. My housemates got me a fluffy toy to hump so I would stop spraying the furniture.
( NeeNoo, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:07, 5 replies)

Topless barmaids and sex shows aplenty...

Many years ago, I was out on the piss in Nottingham with an old mate and his buddies. My mate was a chap called ‘Maxi’.

Maxi was a ‘cheeky chappie’ type, a bit short with thinning hair but definitely a loveable rogue. His legendary appetite for the ladies however, was as rampant as a rabid, randy, rutting rhinoceros who had ram-raided a raucous, revelling rave...for rapists.

Anyway, we found ourselves trawling through town looking for a particular pub…Maxi had heard about this place having a certain ‘Je ne sais Quoi’, which I quickly discovered was to imply: ‘has puddles of tits, and more fanny than a gaggle of women called Fanny, showing their fannies, at a fanny convention.’

Eventually, after straying slightly off the beaten track, we found the place. Even now, I find it difficult to find the words to describe it. A bog-standard, spit ‘n’ sawdust grot-hole of a pub, scattered with average no-hoper old men, and dull, unkempt décor like a derelict building minutes away from either demolition or being sucked into the seventh layer of Hell. If I had to some it up in one word, that word would be ‘Eeeuwww’.

But there was one notable exception. The barmaid.

She was stunning…A Goddess. Brown curly hair down that stretched down her back, eyes like a shimmering emerald heaven …and she was topless...wearing nothing but a lovely lace negligee that she had pulled down revealing a sublime figure, and such large, pert, pendulous breasts that they would have left even Hugh Hefner gasping in admiration, before putting both hands in his pockets, rummaging around a bit, then having a quick shufty off the wrist.

The next bit will not be what you expect.

To me, it was one of the most non-erotic experiences of my life. It really did not matter a jot how beautiful or sexy this woman was, it did not detract from the foul surroundings and general sleaziness of the atmosphere. All I could think about was: ‘What problems must this poor delicate flower suffer from, if she had to resort to this to earn a meagre living?’

I got the round in and we sat down on the squelchy, rickety seats. My attention was then drawn towards a pool table with a filthy, stain-strewn mattress lobbed on top of it. This was going to be the ‘stage’ for the night’s ‘performance’ (which consisted of a very bored looking naked 50-something woman with tits like Spaniel's ears, inserting general apparatus into her capacious orifices). I shuddered, genuinely feeling more embarrassed and awkward than horny.

However, my simian companions were not quite as uncomfortable as I was in the surroundings.

“PHWWWOOOOOARRR!” They roared in unison, in between wolf whistles, tongues hanging out and high-fives briefly interspersed with picking fleas off each other and dragging knuckles across the ground.

Somehow, amongst the filth and degradation. Maxi managed to pull in this place. In what seemed about eight seconds after our walking in, he was swapping sloppy saliva in the corner with some suspiciously-young looking Scottish girl. It was one of the quickest and most unbelievable acts of 'firing in' I have ever witnessed.

Up close.

Maxi and this girl soon disappeared from my view, and as my seal was eventually broken I decided to venture towards the bogs area – making a mental note to not touch anything that looked remotely sticky…in other words…everything.

I followed the signs and wandered down a narrow corridor, at the end of which, through the murky gloom I recognised the back of a figure that I could tell was Maxi, but strangely that was all I could make out. One thing was for certain however, his hips were thrusting back and forth with a verve and technique I haven’t seen since the video for ‘Slam Dunk Da Funk’…

As I approached the toilets I still couldn’t really make out what was going on…it was only when I was about 10 feet away and I noticed a trailing bare leg, and began to make out the shape of the chubby young Scottish lass bent over the pinball machine.

My suspicions were finally realised when I heard the words in a whimpering Highland drawl: “Will you stop trying to stick it up there?…It hurts!” as Maxi pumped away enthusiastically whilst grunting like an asthmatic version of ‘Captain Caveman’

Toilet dwellers were just walking by the proceedings as if nothing was happening. I turned on my heels and returned to my table. As far as I was concerned, my piss could wait.

Maxi told me later that the girl was 17 years old. He was proud. I was ashamed.

I can’t recall the name of the pub. It’s probably for the best.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:05, 8 replies)

Sizzled.
I work in motorsport. Sounds glamorous, actually isn’t. My chosen branch of motorsport is the poor relation of Formula 1. The kind of motorsport that is kept chained up in the loft and never spoken of. You do however meet all kinds of characters, from multi-millionaires (of which there are many) to journeymen mechanics who have been spannering cars in all four corners of the globe, man and boy.

The maxim ‘Work hard, play hard’ has never been truer than for those people who work with racing cars for a living. Everyone seems to be a borderline alcoholic, but after pulling your plums out for seven days on the trot, for twenty hours a day, in the frozen wastes of Sweden to the dust bowls of Greece, you could be forgiven for wanting to let your hair down a little at the end of an event.

One engineer I had the pleasure of working with had a legendary reputation for mischief after a drink or two, he had that genius streak that left him perpetually teetering on the borderline of brilliance and madness.

He had a real Jekyll and Hyde personality, after just a single glass of red wine or a Gin and Tonic, the mild mannered engineer (who had spent just a few of his formative years in Liverpool) would transform into the most Liverpudlian drunk you would ever meet. It was a given that bad things always happened when he had a drink, and you could always be sure there would be a large, expectant, crowd gathered to watch the resulting mess.

After one particular session, he came out of a nightclub and got an attack of the munchies as soon as he saw the hot dog van serving tepid, vaguely burger and sausage shaped scrapings form the abattoir floor, to a captive audience of hungry drunks.

Full of Dutch courage our hero marched to the front of the lengthy queue and demanded, in the nicest possible way, to be served one of the vendors fine hot dogs. ‘Mate, mate, gis a hot dog mate’.

Obviously used to such behaviour, Mr Sizzle (other mobile food franchises are available) pointed to the back of the queue and politely invited our friend to join it. Not to be deterred, and now on a full charm offensive, Mr Engineer again demanded to be served a hot dog. ‘Aw, mate, come on mate, gis a hot dog’. Once again he is invited to join the back of the queue, but again he declines offer.

Mr Sizzle and the queue of angry drunks have now had enough, and despite desperate pleas, Mr Engineer is being ignored by Mr Sizzle. With logic that could only be applied by a steaming drunk, Mr Engineer staggers around to the back of the hot dog van.

Imagine the look on the faces of those in the queue, and Mr Sizzle, as the hot dog van drives off down the road just as Mr Sizzle is serving his umpteenth grease-fest of the night! The van draws to a halt, Mr Engineer disembarks, staggers back around to the front of the van and calmly and politely again asks for a hot dog, citing that he is now at the front of the queue, where-upon, as a nod to his ingenuity, determination and sheer cheek and stupidity, Mr Sizzle promptly served him his hot dog.
(Mr_Wendel, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:41, 5 replies)

I once had the strangest dream
that the government had banned smoking in pubs.

Hoping to wake up at some point.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:27, 8 replies)

No eye dear.
In a fairly rough pub in Birmingham city centre (which I thought was called the ‘Nailgun’ but in fact was called something else, however the name ‘Nailgun’ suited it perfectly).

Anyway, things inevitably started to kick off and I swiftly left the place but not before I saw a man pierce another mans eyeball with a car key. It didn’t burst explosively, but it did ‘plop’ wetly causing vitreous jelly to leak out of the eyeball and down the man’s cheek. It looked like he was crying. Perhaps he would be crying for real if the chap hadn’t gone on to ram the point of the key into the guy's tear duct and try to wrench it wider.

Actually it might not have been his tear duct, and perhaps he was going in to dig into the eyeball but I was on my way out I didn’t stop to ask.

“Just another half then, please.”
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:26, 2 replies)

One Christmas night out
Many moons ago. In a big swish hotel in Edinburgh. Party frocks and best suits and ties were the order of the day.

Gavin the young trainee was learning some harsh lessons from the cruel mistress that is alcohol. He'd been firing it down like there was no tomorrow, and was now starting to look quite ropey.

"Reverend, keep an eye on Gav for a minute while I go for a wee dance with that fit bird from Marketing", says Andy, Gav's boss. Off he tottered into the distance without a care in the world.

Gav was asleep at a table with his head resting in amongst the Christmas cracker debris. He woke up with a start, looked at me and said "Reverend, I'm gonna be sick!"

"Oh shit!"

I picked him up by the collar, wheeched him round and propelled him towards the gents. He was starting to make hideous retching noises as we neared the target, but we were nearly there.

The toilet door was a toilet door like most others. It had an inner door and an outer door. As we got to the outer door Gavin began yet another enormous retch. He barged the door open, just in time to see a gentleman opening the inner door from the other side.

You can see what's coming, can't you?

"BLURGGGGGGGHHHHHH!!" roared Gav.

The poor bugger never stood a chance. Perhaps his one big night out of the year. His big chance to cop off with his secretary. Whatever his plan, it was now lying in a puddle around his feet, over his shoes, up his trousers, and over his jacket.

He was close to tears. I don't blame him.

To my knowledge, Gavin hasn't touched brandy since.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:21, Reply)

Not a pub, but an off license
One of my old chums used to run an off license in Finsbury Park.

Once a bloke came in asking for the wonderful wine they'd had in a restaurant - it was so delicious they HAD to have more of it, so he'd helpfully written down the name of it and hoped that, if they didn't stock it, the off license could order it for him.

So the chap hands my friend a crumpled piece of paper, bearing the legend...

'Vin de Table'.

The End
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:15, 4 replies)

Fixed it
This story is from when I was on tour in an old band I played in. We happened to be playing at an 'all dayer' punk festival type event which was in a pub, so after we'd played our set, we watched a few other bands and basically got completely shit-faced. I recall it being a fun evening but the details are hazy, as is often the way when boozing heavily.

The morning after, climbing wearily out of my sleeping bag, I actually felt quite chipper despite the hangover and found myself inexplicably whistling the theme tune from legendary teatime tellyshow "Jim'll Fix It."

One of my bandmates chuckled and remarked, "That was so funny."

"What was?" I reply.

"Don't you remember??"

I didn't have a clue but it was quickly explained to me.

Apparently at the very end of the night, as everyone was slowly shuffling out of the gigroom towards the doors of the pub, I took it upon myself to climb up onto the bar, shout for everyone to be quiet, and then begin to sing the words:

"Your letter was only the start of it, one letter and now you're a part of it..."

Miraculously, people started joining in until the whole room was singing out the final "Jim has fixed it for yooooouuu, and you and you and you-oo-oo!" followed by joyous cheering at the end.

I was informed that it was like some insane musical, and that the spontaneaity of the whole thing made it all the more awesome. I've been congratulated a few times on starting off such a strange and memorable end to the night and in all honesty... I only wish I could remember any of it!
(pixelpixelpixel, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:06, Reply)

The Duke of Puke
many moons ago i lived above a pretty decent pub, 3 floors above it, so it wasn't all that bad...they done lots of different guest ales and was keenly priced. One fateful night i had some friends over for a bit of grub and booze. Grub was devoured, booze was quaffed, reefers may have been smoked. Anyway, we decide to nip downstairs for a a few jars and a change of scenery. Foolishly i ordered the heavyweight 'winter warmer', which on a good day was a warming, rich pint of loveliness, if a bit heavy, but at 7%, this was to be expected.

I began to sup at the pint and quickly established that my stomach was full to capacity, what with the earlier food and booze. I didn't heed the warning signs and continued supping the 'thick as cream' winter warmer. We were sat at a table in a booth, and i was at the end with my back to the pub. I felt a quickening in my throat that i recognised was a 4 second warning that i was gonna blow!!

There was no way i could make it to the toilet and i didn't want to puke all over the table, so i bent down, so my head was under teh table and vomited litres and litres of dark, foamy vomit all over the floor. I wiped my mouth and leant back up, my friends were continuiing their conversation and actually hadn't even heard or seen me losing my guts. I felt 1000x better than i had just seconds before and was quite proud as i directed their gaze under the table to the paddling pool of winter warmer, red wine, hoegaarden, lamb bhoona, rice, naan, poppadums, spiced onions and raita. They could scarcely believe the AMOUNT of it, nevermind i had done it so quietly. We gingerly edged away from it and made a dash for the exit, leaving the expanding swamp of bile and proto-shit to ooze gently into the pub proper.

There was a pang of guilt for the poor bastard who was gonna have to clean it up, nothing a radiation suit and a shovel wouldn't sort though. I still couldn't help but glance back with a hint of pride, before i legged it out the door.


On another vomit related note, i was at a works night out one time, when some fucking fanny puke dup in a pint glass, replete with masticated chips and carrot cubes.

Bad? Yes.

Worse was to come.

From across the pub, yet another, bigger fanny declares that he wanted to drink the vomit if someone bet him a fiver. Which they did, and he duly glugged down the thick brown pukeshake. I swear the cunt was enjoying it, so much so that he tipped the glass to an even steeper angle to allow a chip to slide down, into his mouth a bit faster. He wanted the dregs.
(Cancer Joy was short lived, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 14:01, Reply)

Top of the Morning to yez...
As many of you will know, up until last summer I was living in the fine city of Chicago, Illinois. Chicago is a fantastic place to drink; the area I was living in on the South Side, not so much, but there are some brilliant pubs elsewhere which are cheap and friendly. And the pubs on St Patrick’s Day have to be seen to be believed…

The weekend before St Patrick’s Day last year, some American friends and I went out to watch the parade that snakes its way through the downtown Chicago area. After this, we headed west of downtown to grab a beer or two and settled in a pretty busy Irish bar. After standing around with pints for a while, we managed to squeeze onto the end of a table with another party. As the afternoon turned to evening and we got quietly sozzled, we took over more and more of the table until it was just our group sat there.

Around 7pm, two german tourists came into the now fairly rowdy bar and asked if they could join us, to which we naturally agreed. One produced a huge bag of potato chips (yeah, alright, crisps, whatever) and started to offer them round the table. As my friend Jess reached into the bag, I said, jokingly, “you want to watch that, taking food off strangers in bars, they might have laced them with Rohypnol.” Jess paused, considered it, then continued to root around in the bag uttering the now immortal words, “Nah, I’ll eat them, I mean, I wouldn’t want to be raped on an empty stomach…”

I laughed till the tears rolled down my legs. As did the 5 marines standing next to us. The night went pretty much downhill after that and my last sober memory (*) is of Jess’ boyfriend being asked to leave a rather smart cocktail bar about 3 hours later because he had intimated that the barmaid was a hooker.

(*) not strictly true. I was neither sober, nor is it the last thing I can remember. I’m trying to blank out the last thing I can remember as it involved me going home with Jess’ boyfriend’s 22 year old roommate, thus slightly buggering up my policy of “don’t pull someone who cannot clearly recall the 80’s…"
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:54, 5 replies)

Big Nose
I have quite a big nose. I found this out quite early on at school. I am also built like a streak of piss.

I am now in my early 30s, and coulple of years ago, having left a stunningly crap staff Christmas party, I decided to dip into my local in my borough of Mordor, and have a sharpener before going home.

The pub is pretty empty, and I prop up the bar with a fag and a pint, enjoying a quiet moment and generally just being a bloke, musing on important matters like who would win in a fight between a mushroom and a tomato.

There is a bloke a few feet away from me doing the same.

"Oi." says bloke.

Oh god, thinks I - here we go. I ignore him.

"OI." says bloke, "OI BIG NOSE!"

This prompts me to go a bit Steve-Martin-in-Roxanne on him - "Honestly! Really! IS that the best you can come up with? Do you think it's clever? Do you think its' funny? Do you think it STILL WINDS ME UP? Jesus CHRIST man it's pathetic! It's RUBBISH! Get some GOOD material because that's CRAP!" rar rar rar I rant on for a bit - against my better judgement, I add, as the bloke is really quite big and hard-looking.

Somewhat taken aback, the bloke initially appears to concede "Alright, mate, alright ..." and then the kicker "So, er ... do you fancy a fight?" he asks - almost coyly.

I look him up and down, "No!" says I, "You're about six foot three and built like a shit brickhouse; I'm five foot eleven and built like string! You'd KILL me!" WHAT the fuck gives me the impression that being this shouty and agressive is a good idea I don't know.

"Fair enough." says bloke, and returns to his pint and pondering.

Ten minutes later, he reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a quid.

"Here you go," says bloke, "I bet you a quid down that that bloke over there can't spell dyslexia."

"MATE! I DON'T WANT A FIGHT! WHAT DO YOU NOT GET?!" I shout.

Honestly - some people.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:54, 2 replies)

The Burke and Hare, Edinburgh, circa 1990
This pub was situated in what became known as "The Devil's Triangle", as it consisted of 3 pubs providing entertainment of a semi-naked, female, dancing variety.

I have no idea why I was in there of course, other than it was just round the corner from my flat. Cough.

Between shows on the stage, a 'lady' from the audience, assisted by her male companion, attempted to gain access to the stage to perform her own interpretation of the art.

Even after a significant quantity of ale on my part, she was not a pretty sight. Knocking on 50, overweight, pot-ugly, bleach-blonde hair and fag in hand, she was hardly a prize catch.

The bar manager blocked her path to the stage, probably on public decency grounds. After all, this was a high class establishment.

As news of the incident spread, the assembled crowd began to sing in unison "Show's your ****, show's your ****, show's your ****". I'll allow you to fill in the blanks at your leisure.

The manager kicked the couple out to howls of derision from the crowd. A fight kicked off, and half the pub emptied to follow the couple. Christ knows why.

The next morning, slightly hungover, I stumbled to the paper shop for the obligatory bottle of Irn Bru and a paper. Who comes towards me but the lady from the previous night. If anything she looked even uglier. Same dress (well, more of an ill-fitting sack TBH), hair and make-up all over the place, and sporting 2 enormous black eyes and a burst lip.

I never went back to the Burke and Hare. It's almost enough to make you switch teams.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:54, 2 replies)

I think I've got this one covered
A lot of things have happened in my local, but the most memorable event happened about this time last year.

We walked into the pub at around 7pm to start our usual Thursday nights quiz and booze up when the land lord announced that there would be a short delay on the quiz while he showed everyone something on the projector.

Everyone gathered around the screen that was usually only used on match days, and the landlord started the clip. As we watched we realised it was CCTV footage of the pub carpark. Then after about 5 seconds, the landlords son (who was currently serving behind the bar) appeared on screen with the barmaid that was stood right next to him.

Thats right. The landlord showed everyone in the pub a video of his son getting sucked off by the barmaid. It was brilliant. She ran off crying somewhere, and he just stood there embarrassed as hell but grinning like a cheshire cat.
( Furness, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:43, Reply)

God walks into a pub...
(shameless c&p)
In 1967, the year Jimi Hendrix became the toast of London, a bartender at a working-class pub in Liverpool wasn't having any of it.

"Sorry, mates, we can't serve your sort in here," the crusty old barkeep told Hendrix and his bandmate, Noel Redding. "We got rules, you know."

Hendrix and Redding puzzled over the bartender's rebuff. Both musicians wore purple scarves around their necks and halos of frizzy hair. Hendrix was dressed in wine-red velvet trousers, a frilly pirate shirt, ancient British military jacket and black cape.

Hendrix wondered if he was being discriminated against because of his skin colour, though such problems were unusual at the time in England.

His second thought was that his military jacket, a relic of the glory days of the British Empire -- purchased at a flea market -- might be offensive to English war vets. It had given him problems before.

When pressed for an explanation, the bartender angrily pointed to a sign on the door.

"If we let one of you in, the whole goddamn place will be full of your sort, and that's no way to run a pub," he bellowed.

Redding collapsed in a fit of laughter after finding a circus poster on the pub door, with a note below it that read, "No Clowns Allowed."
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:38, 1 reply)

"Come to Whitley Bay", they said, "it'll be a laugh"
Back in a previous job, we had a bit of a ritual where most of the office would have a night out once a month, around pay day. These were usually good times to let off a bit of steam and have a laugh. Sometimes we would go down to the Quayside in Newcastle, other times we’d be a bit closer to home.

Then one woman, on the excuse that it was her birthday on payday, suggested that as a change we go to Whitley Bay. “It’s a great night out”, said she.

“Bollocks”, thought I, but as I’d never been, figured why not? It could be a laugh. Despite being a bit of a twat to get to from where I lived (and for some reason, unlike other times we didn’t hire a bus), I managed to blag a lift from a colleague who lived near by, and who wasn’t going to be drinking that night. I agreed to give her a fiver in petrol for her troubles.

It was perhaps one of the most hideous nights out I’ve ever had. Three hours of being dragged into gaudy, neon pubs where you couldn’t hear a bloody thing anyone was saying; wading through piss in the toilets; necking overpriced bottled shite because everyone else “was going to the next bar”…

“But I’ve just got served”.

“Aye, but it’s crap in here so we’re going next door”. What made them think it would be any better next door when that had been the standard opinion of every bar visited thus far I didn’t know, but not wanting to be left on my own in a strange bar in a dying seaside town, I duly necked the contents and left.

The final bar was probably the worst of the lot – I can’t remember the name. Over the last 15 years I’ve managed to mostly blot the horror from my mind, bar a few snippets. I just remember that it was quite big, and gaudier and noisier than the rest. I could tell it was a classy joint straight away.

“Wheeeeeeeeeeey”, came a loud voice – I surmised it was the DJ – “Here’s Debbie! You’s should’ve seen Debbie when she wuz in here last week. She was celebratin’ hor borthdee, an’ as an extra special treat coz she was sooooo pissed, SHE TOOK HER TOP OFF! Whahey lads, have ye left yer bra at home again tonight Debbie?”, etc. The poor lass looked a bit mortified at this, and declined repeated requests for a repeat performance.

Unfortunately, another woman in the bar took this as her cue, climbed up onto the bar and began gyrating awkwardly to some non-descript chart music dancey bollocks that was blasting through the speakers. Teetering slightly, she began to do her best impression of sultry as she grinded, bumped and thrusted for all she was worth. One hand went up to the strap of her little dress, and slipped it over her shoulder provocatively… then the other one. It was a bit like a car crash as most of the room watched as the dress slipped off her shoulders and down past her free swinging norks, whilst she simultaneously continued to narrowly avoid gravity and topple forward off the bar.

What's so wrong with that, some may be asking? Well, for a start she was about 60 years old and a lifetime of cheap booze and tobacco had not been kind to her. Not exactly Helen Mirren, shall we say. And her norks had deflated.

Someone pass the mental floss, please?
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:35, 6 replies)

Don't want to bore you with the full stories

but here's a list of things I’ve seen in my local, starting with the most shocking:

Stabbing

Bloke pissing himself at the bar and getting thrown out.

Same bloke a week later shitting himself and getting thrown out for good.

Big bloke from a neighbouring village pub barging in saying 'who's the hardest fucker in here?' Cue the hardest fucker in there standing up, walking over and knocking him spark out.... Funny as fuck that one!

Bloke called Tohn Jhompson (name changed slightly) was annoying everyone in there with his bullshit tales, so when he went to the loo, one of the locals stirred his pint with his cock.

One of the chavettes from the estate came in, got pissed went outside and threw up all down herself and then tried to get back in to carry on.

Years ago they had one of those 5' aluminium troughs for us blokes and it was always getting blocked, anyway one day a lad (I think his nick name was Eggy) ran into the bogs obviously needing something desperately, well he slipped over and in an effort to save himself his hand went into the trough, problem was that is was full of the golden stuff and with his momentum he caused a sort of tidal wave of piss which hit the other end of the trough and proceeded to come back towards him, but his hand was in the way so it just came over the side and all over him and I mean all over, head to foot. How we laughed

Why not drink somewhere else I hear you say? Well, it's the only pub in the village!

Will add more as they come back to me.
(Kip, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:27, 2 replies)

My dad was telling my of a pub he visited a while ago.
This old guy owns it and is a bit of a real ale buff. He only sells hand pulled ales from small breweries and barred some stranger that walked in the pub for the first time because he didn't like the look of him.

Anyway, one time my dad and grandad went there the place was empty. They both sat down near the bar and ordered their ales. In walks an old guy and approaches the bar whilst giving my dad the evil eye. He whispers something to the landlord and went off to the loos. The landlord goes over to my dad and asked him if he didn't mind moving as he was sitting in this old guys seat.

There must have been 30 other chairs to sit on.
( girlinthehole, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:23, Reply)

Lorenzo's nightclub, Dunfermline, circa 1995
Picture the scene.

It's the final dance of the evening. A slow number. The dancefloor is progressively filling up with couples both longstanding and erm...more recent, i.e. that have just bagged off with each other within the last 20 seconds.

I took to the floor with the Mrs Fister of the time. As we held each other closely and moved rhythmically to George Michael (or whatever the hell it was) I noticed not 2 feet from us another couple similarly engaged.

However, there was one subtle difference. The gentleman had his hand right up his lady-friend's skirt, into her knickers, and right up her mimsy. In full view of everyone. He appeared to be indulging in what I could only describe as 'Captain Birdseye'.

Dunfermline, a quality nicht oot.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:23, 6 replies)

Victor - Pub Mentalist
Don't know why this story occurs to me, maybe I like to relive the bad times. It's less of an anecdote than a ramble. Apologies for length/unfunny/cringiness in advance, but I'm guilty of at least two of these issues on a daily basis. Apologies also for excessive use of Parentheses as an attempted comic vehicle ayeeeeeee

I'm sure everyone is familiar with the Pub Mentalist - usually a random old bloke smelling of musty-something-or-other with a big poacher's coat on, looking for a wee bit of company while on his way to pissed up oblivion. Victor was one such, in a public house in my locality (Edinburgh town). I appear to be a magnet for such people, perhaps due to the fact that I have no qualms about standing in pubs on my own, either waiting for folk, or in Victor's case, watching some football after work.

It all starts fine, old Vic shuffles up and gives me a bit of chat about his family (the wife has left, and though it goes unsaid, probably due to drinking habits) and then an inevitable tirade of advice about how to live life to the full ensues (he was more of a preacher than a practicer it must be said) - see the world, keep in touch with old friends etc.

Now, it's an odd mix of students looking for cheap beer and weird old guys in this pub (as it's near the Uni), but they usually keep nicely separate. Apart from at the bar, where I was standing. One student (a very handsome young lady, it did not escape my notice) comes up to order her Malibu and pineapple* and is forced to squeeze past Victor. His eyes narrow to focus through his besozzlement, and he whispers** sweetly in her ear.

"I'd love to be with you"

Now, maybe this would sound good from Brad Pitt to a groupie? But from Victor, I died a little inside. She gave a perfunctory "ehhhh, no thanks" and ran away, and I was forced to pick up the pieces as Victor tried to rally himself.

Personally, I wrote down his words of love to use at a future time. They've never worked. Could be me? Doubt very much that it's the diamond banter.




*note: may not have been malibu and pineapple, my misogny takes over sometimes
** note: bellows
(donuts saw Gordon Gekko raking through the bins on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:20, Reply)

Pool
Not my local per se, but the pub I used to frequent after football matches on a Saturday. It has a couple of pool tables down the side of the bar, where my friends and I used to lurk whilst bemoaning the teams' performance.

Coming up to the end of the season, lovely summers' day (so a few years ago then), and the pub is packed. We start racking up the tables, and have our usual evening of games, with a few more spectators than we're used to. In particular, I get cheered whenever I take a shot. Now I'm not the greatest player in the world by any stretch of the imagination. And whilst I'm playing OK, I'm not exactly Ronnie O'Sullivan here. But no, they think I'm the bees knees until lo and behold, I win the game to a round of applause from my fan club.

Basking in the adulation, I make my way back to the table where everyone else was sitting. This lasts only until one of them leans over and says the fateful words: "Nice game, but you probably want to wear trousers next time you do that".

Oh yes. It hadn't crossed my mind that instead of my normal jeans arrangement, thanks to the hot weather, I'd turned up in a fetching miniskirt. And being of the short persuasion, I have to lean over the pool table a lot to be able to pot anything. Every time I did so, the gentlemen behind me got a spectacular view of my knickers. Which would explain my sudden boost in popularity.

Joy.
(Kitimariana, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:14, 4 replies)

Blarney
One of my mates, Bless his memory, was from Dublin and told me this tale of his local.

The landlord of the said local was a large man with a huge beer-belly, a red face and a large red potato-like nose. And the broadest Dublin accent you’ve ever heard apparently. However this isn’t really necessary to the tale, just window dressing. One of the bloke’s enduring objects of hate were gypsies. They were not allowed to set foot in his pub on pain of rapid and painful ejection. One lunchtime session he had to pop out “on business” (read: See his girlfriend while his wife was in bed with a migraine) and he left a relatively new barman in charge.

On his return he cast his eyes around to check all was well and spotted an old chap who had been sitting quietly in the corner, drinking his Harp lager, reading his paper and bothering no-one. Up marches Edwin.

“Get out of my fucking pub now ye pikey bastard!”

“But I’m not a p….”

“Just fuck off now afore I stuff that pint up your arse, ye fucking Gypsy!!”

“But I’m not a gy…”

“Look, ye culchie (sp?), just get out. And a hint, if you want to pretend you can read hold yer paper the right way up. Cunt.”

The old chap decided it was better to leave and did so. The barman had by then managed to get a word in. Turns out the old bloke was a visitor to the area but not a traveller (he was over seeing his sister). The only reason he had the paper upside down was that he’d been reading the answers to the crossword.

As Baz would say, rafter.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:05, 3 replies)

Used to work in a North London pub
I remember on one occasion, an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman all walked in together.

''What is this, a fucking joke?'' said I.



(Cheers)
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 13:01, Reply)

I can't think of a title for this.
I have worked on the bar at the New Vic Theatre near Stoke for 15 years, on and off. I was back pulling pints on Boxing Day this year when I went back to stay with my parents for a couple of days. Well, I needed an escape.

I genuinely love the place and the people there. Well - most of them. Sasha the Slasher is a bit odd; Sticky Phil is downright sinister. He plays the bongos and keeps dead prostitutes in his freezer. Possibly.

Stereotypes are lazy, but you can usually make predictions about the audience from what's on. Audiences for Aykbourn plays are universally hateful: they think they're cultured, but they're usually just up themselves, and their vision of theatre staff is that we should all be wearing bowties and waistcoats. They look down on us for having the temerity to wear jeans and t-shirts. That they think we're below them is ironic given the number of orders for pints of larger in the interval drinks and the fact that most of the bar staff have several degrees.

For other shows, the punters are nicer - but not traditional theatre types. One punter once wanted a glass of wine. It was given to him. He refused to take it. We asked what was wrong. His complaint was that it had come out of a bottle.

He'd only ever experienced wine out of a Stowell's box.




God, that was boring, wasn't it?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:58, 2 replies)

Pubs, no matter....
...how high end, or equally, low brow they may be, will at some point of their structural career be a place for us: Inebriatus-twatimus to try and get our barely dexterous digits into the knickers of them: Fitticus-beergogglius-babeimus.

Most blokes seem to get a slap, some actually find themselves playing uncoordinated tonsil tennis with a girl of questionable age while the poor few will just sit in the corner, alone, planning their revenge against everyone who is better looking than them.

If you're me though, you'll fuck the whole thing up with style.

There was a girl I liked, a lot. She generated the proverbial 'float' for my metaphorical boat. I was really quite into her, so I was keen to impress.

We, as a group, found ourselves undertaking a mid-summer pub crawl of epic proportions. It was brilliant actually as it was one of those days where I felt invincible. We've all had those days, the one's where the booze seems to be having a minimal effect, saving you from being wankered by 3pm.

The conversation was great too, everything I said was funny and well received. I was a hero among my peers, but more importantly I was a here to the girl who I was so enamored with that my heart fluttered every time her piercing blue eyes met with mine.

As the day progressed the group started to disperse into the night, dancing, falling or trying to play Who Wants To Be A Millionaire on the IT-Box. Me and the girl of my dreams were at the bar though, chatting, flirting, tentatively touching, tingling with tremendous tension (alliteration there, just for Pooflake), it was amazing.

It was at this point that she suggested we have a shot of something. Fine by me, I'm a seasoned drinker so I'm more than happy to carry on...

"Two tequilas" shouts my girlie....

Hmm, this should be new. I've never had tequila before, but hey ho, can't be all that bad.

We line up the shots, do whatever it is with the salt, and then knock them back. This is where it went wrong. In a big way.

The tequila reacted with me in a manner that is not to dissimilar to the reaction you'd get from a bottle of Fairy Liquid being placed in the Log Flume at Alton Towers.

The details are sketchy, but I do know I barfed over the bar, the barmaid, the floor and her. Not just a bit though, no, she went up a cup size from the amounts of vomit (consisting of a days food, beer, Guinness and a little bit of tequila). It seeped through her top, spilling out over her skirt and down her legs onto what I can only assume were quite expensive open toed shoes.

The pub, and this was a big pub mind, fell silent. I gurgled a bit and took in the sights of what I'd done. It wasn't good.

Predictably she ran out screaming with her friends in tow. I just stood there in shock. My mate came over, put his hand on my shoulder and said, in the most reassuring tone..

"You sir, are a fucking legend"

To this day I've not spoken to her, I've not been allowed to have this story die and worst of all, I'm still not allowed back in that pub!
( The Pollitt chooses to listen to Enya on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:52, 4 replies)

The Mac
Down a street known as 'blood alley' in Goole. It's a great little biker bar, there's Lofty whose seven foot in most directions and his wife who'se only got one leg.

The gaffer is a man called Mel Lockwood, he's 60 and has a colostomy bag. It doesn't stop him from sleeping with anything, his wife once caught him on the CCTV fucking a women on the pool table in the other room.

The beer garden is a a driveway with a plastic sheet box which resembles a bus shelter. In it are a couple of plastic patio chairs and wooden stools rotting away.

There's Tony, a guy who is in his sixties and has a child to a girl in her twenties. Mel 'rave-on' who does the rock disco, a feat where noone usually attends so he just sits behind a massive illuminated DJ set which looks like it was made in the 70s.

I love the Mac :D
(Hagbard MacDougal, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:49, 1 reply)

Upmarket
I got my first bar job at Christmas in 1994. The pub that took me on was situated precisely on the boundary between a middle-class area and a slightly down-at-heel council estate. It had two bar areas and you couldn't get between them without going outside. The middle-class bit was better furnished, but the beer was a penny a pint cheaper on the council estate side.

Even the range of drinks was different: you could get a pint of mild on the "poor" side, and people'd ask for odd mixtures that were new to me: half-and-half, which is half bitter and half lager, or Mickey Mouse, which (inexplicably) was half bitter and half mild.

I preferred working in the shabbier bar - the people there were friendlier - and I was on the rota to work there at lunchtime on Christmas Day. It was quiet, and I was on time-and-a-half, so all was well.

"Just 'cos it's Chrzmz," slurred one punter, "gizza white wine."
She wobbled slightly. It might have been the weight of mascara that was doing something to her balance.
"Medium or dry?" I asked.
"Got any sweet?"
I winced, but found the cheapest sweetest wine I could.
"Luvverly," she said. "Now, could you put me one of them cocktail cherries in? Just fer make it proper classy, y'know?"
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:47, 2 replies)

Cleve Rugby Club.
12 pints please, 8 Stella, 4 'thorn - make two of those with a slice please.

Sorry mate, we are out of pint glasses.

24 halves please, 16 stella, 8 'thorns - make four of those with a slice please.

He did in all.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:32, 2 replies)

Children in Pubs

Since the smoking ban my local, The Junction, Tufnell Park, has become little more than a playground for little kids.

When I'm sitting in a beer garden, sucking on the end of Benson & Hedges with as much skill and determination as a hooker on steroids, drinking beer and talking bollocks, the last thing I want is to have some little brat trip over my feet. Or worse still, have some parent tell me off for using colourful language. Its a PUB!!! FUCK OFF!!!

Along with the kids comes the food. Trying to enjoy a long and heartfelt conversation about feltching is pretty damn hard if you've gotta raise your voice above the clatter and din of cutlery hitting plates.

The other day I got my own back in the most insignificant way imaginable, but it made me feel sooooooo much better.

A little kid, think he was named Thaddeus. (Thaddeus, for fucks sake!) Was twatting about round the table my friends and I were drinking at. Sweet, darling little Thaddeus was doing the aeroplane noise thing three year old boys love to do. He stopped the aeroplane noise occasionally to 'shoot' the people on my table with a couple of Heinze sauce bottles he aquired from the condiments trolly (fucking condiments trolly - its a fucking PUB!).

Thaddeus was really getting on my tits.

His parents were WAY OVER THE OTHER SIDE of the beer garden, enjoying a nice QUIET meal, completely oblivious to the fact that their little shit of a son was destroying my calm.

Thaddeus stopped and grinned at me. I grinned back. I was thinking about offering him a fag, but thought better of it.

Instead I said: "Can I have a look at those?" Pointing at his tomato sauce bottle 'cannons'.

He offered me the bottles, I quickly loosened the tops and said: "Why don't you go and dive bomb mummy and daddy?" And gave him a little push. And off he scampered, giggling like a retard.

Five....
Four....
Three...
Two...
One...

"AAAAAiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE !!!"

Said Thaddeus' mother and father, as their son proceeded to shower the contents of two bottles of tomato sauce over their hair, clothes, table, and general vicinity with accompanying machine gun sound effects.

It was like something out of Scarface.

I was very proud.

Scary thing is, Ms Hanky and I are trying for a kid at the moment...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 12:28, 14 replies)