crystal clear
whilst working in the local boozer, which happened to have a glass wall, there was a particularly inebriated old gentleman who looked as if he wasn't unaccustomed to a few afternoon ales who had to be chucked out.

he refused to vacate the establishment and when we tried to manahandle him off his seat he started swearing and with a cry of, "right then ye fuckin' cunts ah'll fuckin pish off!"
he then proceeded to march straight towards what he thought was the door but was the recently cleaned window wall. he walked straight into at full pelt burst his nose, cracked his head off a table when he fell backwards knocking himself out and shat himself.

some may think that was the funny part but it wasn't. it was watching my boss cleaning up human shit after the paramedics refused to do it and us minimum wage monkeys also followed suit.

he was forever known as faeces phil after that.
(uknowsit, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:32, Reply)

The Lad who talked to God
In my early 20's I spent a few months living in a backwater town called Nederland, Colorado. It was full of weird Americans who had been brought up on a diet of Jerry Springer, corndogs and beer. I wouldn't be surprised if the this town was the inspiration for deliverance. The locals were so backward that when I told them I was from South Africa it had them stumped and then they went quiet. After some moments in thought one of the slightly brighter ones said, 'That's in africa right?'.
'Yes', I replied. We carried on with our pool game and some time later I happened to look over at the bright one. A knowing smile crossed his face as he said, 'Is that in the South of Africa, riigth?'.

Yes, so that paints a picture of how dim the people in this particular town were. Apartheid was also a new word which they had never heard. It too was deciphered using similar logic to that applied to the South Africa conundrum. The word 'apart' they understood, but 'heid' "...must be German or something". Yes, they really were that stupid.

So my purpose of my trip there was to work on the local ski resort. In between working I spent a lot of time drinking beer. At $1 a beer its hard to say no. We also used to play pool against the locals of which there was one who was ever so slightly more deranged than the rest. You see this young lad of 20 had tattooed his own face. It was done in the style of a Moari warrior so he told me. Except it wasn't really. It was horribly skew and he looked like he'd been attacked with a permanent marker. It went across every part of his face including down his neck. He said it took him a few days to finish, but he was happy with the final result. He did mention that he felt it held him back a little bit as he was now struggling to find work. No fucking shit!! Even the local grocery store turned him down to pack shelves. You know tough times are ahead when you can't get a job as a shelf packer in a town with a population of less than 1000.

The real clincher in all of this was when I asked him the reason for doing it. He answered immediately, "God told me to do it". It was also noted that this lad smoked a shit load of pot and on closer investigation there was some correlation between the times God spoke to him and when he was high. In fact I'd say that 100% of the time God spoke to him he was high. Never-the-less, he was still happy that "God had chosen him to give this message to the world".
'Oh, what message might that be', I enquired.
'I don't know. God hasn't told me yet'.

Well so there you have it. The strangest lad in my local was talking to God. I bet you can't say the same about yours!
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:19, 1 reply)

Burke and Hare in Edinburgh
I must admit to being slightly surprised that more of the stories on this QoTW are about this den of iniquity.

'Twas my mate X's stagnight, organised by his "irrepressible" mate, Y, who had decided that the standard plot of restaurant, "classy" lapdancing club and boozy parade round all the bars in Edniburgh needed livening up with a trip to the Burke and Hare. As mentioned before, this dive in the pubic triangle area of Edinburgh was a crappy boozer which was magically transformed into a strip joint by dumping an 8x4 sheet of MDF onto the pool table, thus creating an ideal stage for nubile lovelies to parade their delights on.

Anyway, the ladies were gyrating and the exclusively male audience seemed to be enjoying themselves, some displaying this enthusiasm by baying like loons, others by storing their jaws on the floor and, and one particular chap by scratching the itch on his right leg, obviously quite severe as his right hand had, thus far, been permanently stuck in the pocket of his suspiciously stained and flapping mac.

Still, no fights broke out, no-one had killed us and all was well, we figured we'd got away with it, no-one had stabbed us for being English, result, now the ladies had stopped and it was time to leave.

All fine, until the afore-mentioned man in the mac walked up to one of our party, enthused about the quality of the entertainment on offer, and, in parting, patted my mate on the shoulder. With his right hand. Genuinely, one of those "Noooooooooo..........." moments, time appeared to freeze for me as I watched the shaky, sticky hand descend on Dan's shoulder.
(nonegiven, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:09, Reply)

3 Years
Working in a pub. That's three years worth of tales, storys, fails and gorey happenings. The first few that spring to mind -

Local prankster nicked the letter "L" from the front of the pub so that it read "Pub ic House"

I once found a chap in the urination station with blood oozing from his wrist. He just looked at me and calm as a breeze says "can you help me?" Tempted though I was to say "no mate" and continue to releive my bladder I decided to promptly call thambulance.

Pissed people screaming Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of their voice atop the bar's tables is quite funny. Especially when you record it and show them the next day.

To summerise - Without pubs there'd be nowhere for the alcoholics, nutters, village idiots and (from what I gather) nowhere for the druggies to relax descreetly and not stick out from the crowd.
(Moofster, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:05, 4 replies)

any Derby b3tards here?
If yes, then answer me this...

since when did the Blue Dog turn into some chavvy piece-of-shit?

The blue dog was an awesome studenty rock pub, with a great and friendly atmos, cheap drinks and a half pipe in the beer garden

I went upto Derby not long ago for my graduation ceremony, and was going out for a drink in the evening to celebrate, went into the 'Dog' to find that it was playing monotonous clubland garbage, the half pipe in the beer garden had dissapeared, and it was full of chavs looking at you as if 'our sort aren't welcome anymore'

When did this happen?

cheers
(Lord Chode, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:04, 6 replies)

Extenuating circumstances
One time I walked straight into a pub's kitchen, picked up a tin of salmon, walked out of the pub and deposited it on a table in the beer garden. I have no idea why but I think alcohol was involved.
(MagicMoose, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:03, 4 replies)

Unsubtle drug use
I had met a good friend for a pint on a fairly quiet midweek evening. He'd told me he planned to pick up a couple of grams of Bolivia's finest for the evening (He being something of a small time dealer) to test out before he bought a couple of ounces the next day.

We were sat in the pub's upstairs area, away from the prying eyes of the barstaff but with a few other groups of people dotted around and he asks if I fancy a cheeky nose up. Not being one to shy away from such things I said yes and out of his pocket comes what looked like a sack of Persil.

Apparently he'd gone ahead and bought the full two ounces there and then and brought the bag to the pub with him. Passing a little wrap around is one thing but a bag that big just isn't subtle.

Never the less, people assume I guess that a bag that big can't possibly be full of coke so nobody batted an eyelid, even after I took it off him, pocketed it, went to the toilet and came back with eyes like saucers and a nose bleed.

To this day that's the least subtle drug abuse I've ever seen going on in a pub and it was me doing it.

Oh yeah, Snowdrop, Lewes if anyone's counting.
(Ed Can Do, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:01, 3 replies)

Inadequate Toilet Facilities
In the historic Sussex market town of Horsham there exists a drinking establishment by the name of 'Pirie's Wine Bar'. It's a tiny little Tudor-style building that dates back to the year dot. The type of place you have to bend down to get your head under the doorway and they have those strange leather straps hanging from the ceiling for pissed men to hang on to after too many pints of Bishop's Finger.

The place is so small that the only urinal and the only proper bloke's toilet in the whole pub occupy the same broom cupboard, with no cubicle to seperate them. And no lock. As a consequence it is not uncommon to be stood at the urinal and for a drunkard to come in, introduce himself and then start doing a huge guiness induced poo while you stare uncomfortably at the ceiling and gag at the fowl stench eminating from his rotten bowls. Perhaps this was the norm in yesteryear?

I like to spend my Christmas Eves in this place as aside from the pisser it's actually a bloody good laugh. One such yuletide eve I had managed to get a mistletoe snog off this delightful girl i went to College with and we had moved into the men's toilet for a bit of tit and fanny action away from prying eyes.

Anyway, in walks some mental old bearded drunk who pulls down his kecks and starts unleashing all hell on the Armitage Shanks. This girl i'm with catches one whiff of his sordid muck and voms all down myself, herself and Mental old Baz on the toilet. Not a good look.
(Backdoor Fury .. is my wrestling alias., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:00, 2 replies)

greece win.
i was drinking, watching greece vs. portugal in the euros final.

some fella stood to win £10,000 if greece won.

they did, and he brought everyone a drink... apart from me.

''you've already had one son'' ''i haven.... o fuck it''

the end.
(juan fluovaze cook-oozenest, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:59, Reply)

Getting thrown out..
My mate got chucked out of a pub once because he decided to have a piss up against the bar while he was waiting to order his pint. He would have got away with it if his aim was a bit better and hadn't splashed most of it on the girls leg standing next to him. It was the walkabout so you expect these kind of things to happen.

This was also the same mate who ran to the bottom of my garden once with a a bog roll while proclaiming, 'Its such a lovely day. I think I'm going to have a shit outside'. I can confirm he had a shit and it was indeed a lovely day.
(The Archduke of South London I'm in your Girlfriend eating her organs, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:52, 6 replies)

PROTEST!!!
Ok, so it was a club, not a pub, but this is my proudest ever moment in a drinking establishment...

When I first arrived at University, I was thrilled to see that the Union nightclub was actually really rather good. I've seen many others which appear to just be a space in the Union building where someone's jerry-rigged a couple of lights and speakers, but not this one. No, this was a proper three-floor, bloody good quality club (despite being full of students).

At the start of my first year, every Tuesday was rock night. This involved all three floors being open, great music, live bands, the works. Then, throughout the year, bit by bit it began closing down. First the bands stopped appearing. Then the top floor shut. Then the basement floor (the big, proper dance-floor) shut, leaving only the middle open.

Now, in fairness, it had been waning in popularity and presumably it was not economically viable to keep it as it had once been. But it was damn annoying.

Finally, the end of the year came around, and EVERYONE who had ever been piled into the one little floor that was left open, for a big goodbye rock-out. The place was absolutely rammed. People were going nuts. Everyone was having the time of their lives...

... when the sound cut out. Mid-song. And the flourescent 'bugger off home now' lights came on. An hour early.

Everyone screamed in animalistic outrage, and turned to the DJs, though it soon became clear that they had no warning.

It was the bastard management. They'd been systematically stripping down my favourite night of the week, and now they were denying us our final hour. Well I wasn't going to take it! Not any more! I was going to show them what I was made of!

I sat down.

Now, to be perfectly honest, I did this more as a joke than anything else. But then my mates sat down. And then the guys next to us... and next to them...

And before you knew it there were hundreds of us. We were chanting, singing, ripping posters off the walls (using the ones advertising it open til 2am as placards). It even got to the point where I was sat on the DJ desk leading the chanting: "Fascists! 2am! Fascists! 2am!"

Fascists? Really??? Oh well...

But we obviously did something right, as they eventually relented and let us have one last song! Result!

Four years as a student and that's the only protest I ever took part in.

Oh, somehow I not only avoided getting banned, but the following couple of years the management went out of their way to help when my band arranged live music nights. I often wonder what they would have said if they realised who we were...
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:51, Reply)

Not funny
I was sat at a table in a pub with a newly bought almost full pint in front of me. The barmaid came over to give the table a wipe. As she was leant over in front of me polishing away, a nearby customer let out an enormous belch. Startled, she knocked my pint all over my lap.

Soaking wet with the whole pub laughing at me, fucking great.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:46, Reply)

The Untouchables

Has anyone else discovered that the older you get, the less you can drink?

And I don't mean your propensity to drink. I mean there's certain tipples that you got wasted on at some point in the past and the thought of even smelling them now makes you want to spew / brings back evil memories.

My list of untouchables goes like this:

Teachers - Drank half a liter on my 18th. Woke up with my trousers round my ankles, waving my cock about, in a field...
...full of sheep.

Bacardi - Woke up in a bathtub, stark bollock naked, with a very large older lady stradling me, pissing on my chest... (apparently she said I'd consented, but I really can't recall).

Gordon's Gin - 25 years old, a girl broke up with me, after a bottle of Gordon's thought it would be a good idea to go round to her house at 3am and serenade her with Goodnight Elizabeth by the Counting Crows (her name was Mary, by the way)... She set her dog on me and I have the scars on my arse to prove it.

Cider (any brand) - Got pissed up on this shit when I was 19, maybe 20. Decided I was stronger than Robo-fucking-Cop and took on an entire rugby team from Devon, as they were 'looking at me a bit funny'... Was in traction for three weeks, pissing in a bottle... Wanking when you're on morphine is ace, but not being able to reach your cock because your arms are in plaster is a fucking nightmare.

AND

Navy Rum - on my 30th went out with my then girlfriend and her family. Drank a shitload of this stuff. Ended up snogging my then girlfriend's mum in the pub toilets, kneeding her huge doughy breasts like I was planning on opening my own bakery.

I'm not a bad man...

But maybe I should steer clear of pubs in the future???

At this rate they'll be fuck all left for me to drink except mineral water...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:42, 8 replies)

A certain Bristol pub
has a distinct shortage in the number of toilets.

The men's is bad, the womens is worse, which leads to a lot of women frequenting the men's cubical.

I try to tell them that men's toilets are non-speaking areas. But they never listen.

I was queing for the cubical when one girl decided she wasn't waiting, so she stood in front of me, squatted and used the urinal trough. That was special.

Editted to add: being in Bristol I think it's a shame I didn't think to say "Oi can see your tuppence"
(teebie jeebie, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:40, 12 replies)

During
An all day session a good number of years back, I made the mistake of buying a pint of lager.

Unfortunately, I can only drink a single pint / pint and a half before gagging (although I can drink cans of lager no problem) and got that watery mouth feeling that heralds the bowk arising. You all know it. It's impossible to swallow it back down, and your gorge starts undulating.

I stumbled to closest place I could throw up which happened to be the pub door. Knocking it open, the floodgates opened and I jettisoned a belly full of Guinness, real ale, and the last pint of Stella that had caused the dicky tummy. Straight into the path of an old bloke walking past.

Alas, I'd love to say it covered him in rich stomach broth, but for a 60+ year old he must have been a gymnast in his youth as he twirled away in a glittering display of finesse, uttering the words “jesus FUCKING CHRIST” and then proceeded to walk on without looking back. I bet he gives every pub doorway a wide berth now.....
(Rimfeast, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:39, 1 reply)

Pint of poo
As a student in Liverpool I used to attend a debauched "nightclub" in the city centre called the Crazy House. Three floors of £1 an alcopop mayhem. Top was dance music, the middle played indie and the basement was a sweaty death metal moshpit full of facepainted vampires. It was in the basement that I discovered one of these headbangers had laid a full on poo in a pint glass and perched it carefully on the bar. Replete with a peanut still undigested. Sorry.
(Backdoor Fury .. is my wrestling alias., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:39, 7 replies)

Drink with stout heart ye men of olde.
There I was sheepishly ordering a small glass of porter at the local Inn, when who should walk in but Carl Weathers, but wait, let me start at the begining... There I was sheepishly ordering a small glass of porter at the local Inn, when who should walk in but Carl Weathers, He was as wide as he was tall yet seemed short with his jacket off.
"I pity the fool who doesn't get Carl Weathers a Staroprammen!" he bellowed, he was having another of his 'mind issues'.
"That's not you Carl, that's someone else" offered Len, the landlord.
"I can be whomever I like to be" mouthed Carl into a cup, "they can't stop me thinking it" he thought outloud silently.
Someone mentions 'The Loveboat' and I burst into tears.
Carl looks at me with disgust, I'm crying my brains out and I'm loving every minute.
"My groin is a simian mass of writhing monkeys!" shouts Carl into a dusty pram.
The mother looks on, cigarette burning a hole in her mottled jumper.
A crash of glass, a cheer from the crowd, a grown man stood, lad out, for all to see.
That's the day I realised.
"nice pubs..." I whispered.
(jindodsdadsdogsdead I am not stusut79, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:38, 1 reply)

Long Marston
airfield at a drag race meeting circa 1988. Rode a motorbike into the clubhouse, ordered and paid for two pints, and my pillion held on to the beers as we rode out again.
Nobody batted an eyelid - bastards.
( social hand grenade I was a lurker before you were a lurker, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:38, 2 replies)

The Acorn Club
1988. 19th February. 23:45.

I'm in bed. It's the night before my 18th birthday.

Dad rocks up from the club (The Acorn was "his club") and rushes into my room. Thankfully I wasn't enjoying the attentions of Madame Palm and her Five Lovely Daughters at this point.

Dad: "Ed, get up"

Me: "Wtf?"

Dad: "Get up. We're going to the Acorn"

Me: "Oh"

Wander down to the club having gotten into a suit and a shirt and tie. Dads barman and bar staff had organised three x pewter tankards for me and, realising that I'd never been drunk before, proceeded to get me shit-faced to a standard that I'd never thought imaginable.

Got home at around 0400 having vommed three times in the quarter-mile between the club and home.

Up at 0800 because I really wasn't feeling very well. Managed to be very very very very very ... VERY ... quiet all day to avoid any loud noises.

'Twas a good lesson though. Didn't get too pished at all at uni!
(Eds Meds Mathskillz=1,Socialskillz=0, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:23, 1 reply)

Southern Comfort is bad for you
I have to admit before even starting that this story isn't about pubs so much as it is about drink itself - specifically the evil that is Southern Comfort. This happened last night and I can only remember the night in a series of flashbacks (numbered appropriately)

1) Halfway through the bottle, being attacked by my mother with slippers. Funny as fuck.

2) Not a flashback, but apparently after watching TV for a while, my stomach erupted its entire contents into the kitchen sink (I DO NOT recall this). I fall over. Get shoo-ed to bed.

3) Sneak out of house wearing a suit (I still don't know why) to go to ASDA (I was by then feeling peckish) for an assortment of duck rolls and chicken tikka pasties (Fucking disgusting. I just wanted to see what they were like. Still ate them, though).

4) Get a taxi to Chester (5-6 miles away), realise it's about 2am and that there are no boozers open. Inexplicably sneak into the Crowne Plaza hotel and get trapped in a lift, having to prize the doors open (Twice, I took the same lift back down to the lobby).

5) Taxi home. Locked out. Break into back garden and try to sleep in the rickety garden shed, which has both windows smashed in, perched between a broken patio seat and a bicycle, listening to Springsteen's new album on me iPod.

6) Realise this is a bad idea. Look for hotels in the local area (worse idea). Only one I found was fully booked and they directed me to another, 4 miles walking distance (actually, probably 6 - I spent half an hour walking the wrong way) that didn't even exist.

7) Walk 2 miles towards home. Buy a newspaper, get bus back to town. Enter (now unlocked) house, go to bed, put Welsh radio on (thinking that I could somehow understand the language and wonder why they are going on about Ostriches and Trousers). Pass out.

I wasn't even that drunk. Only this morning did I realise this is why I banned myself from drinking it about two years ago. It turns me into a mental.
( Derpasaurus DOG FARTS, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:22, 4 replies)

Pubs
I used to be a professional musician. I've seen a lot of crazy shit...

One that sticks in my mind is a dude who was going around and offering to eat the contents of the ashtray on your table for a free pint. About halfway through chewing his cigarette butt soup, he would open his mouth and stick out his tounge for all to see. This would result in most of the women at the tables trying not to barf!!
(cidman2001 Sick,sick,sick...I Love it!, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:15, 3 replies)

Birmingham pubs
The Great Stone in Northfield, Birmingham, used to have snakebite proudly displayed on the tariff above the bar. This is not usually the sign of a quality hostelry.

One early evening we're in there and a brooding twentysomething man is sitting alone finishing a pint of lager. Suddenly he stands up. smashes the glass on the edge of the table, glares at everyone in turn and then leaves. No-one batted an eyelid.
(rogerzilla, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:08, 1 reply)

My school friend, Big gay Lee sugested I go on www.rathergood.com
I did, I loved it and first encountered B3ta through its links page.

Oh, and Lee now works in a pub.
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:02, Reply)

Reinforcing the coalition
A friend of mine serves in the Royal Navy. When in Sunny Iraq, he and a bunch of his mates - an Englishman, and Irishman and a Welshman, no less - got into a drinking session with a group of Americans. The RN types of course wanted to drink steadily, and the Americans were doing their best to keep up with them, but despite their best efforts were frankly falling short of the pace.

One of the Americans had reached the stage of drunkenness where he was starting to promote himself, rather. His earlier claim of being an Ordinary Seaman had been a cover story and he was in "reality" a member of the US Special Forces. He wasn't supposed to talk about it, but by God he was going to. Oh yes. He filled in this story with increasingly slurred and incredible tales of derring do; a one-man killing machine and no error.

He'd reached the point where he'd run through an Iraqi barracks cutting the throat of every third man and was disarming IEDs before breakfast using his toothbrush, and had passed beyond it all into incoherence, so his mates decided it was time to go. With one of them supporting him at each shoulder, he turned at the stairs and shouted back "I don't care what anyone says. You Brits are okay".

He waved in undying friendship as a large damp stain appeared at his crotch and began to spread. Mewing with disgust his mates started to hustle him out and back to their ship.

The lads turned back to the bar and ordered some more beer. "Special Forces?" said Taff in the distainful tones only a Welsh accent can manage. "Special Needs, more like."
(richardm, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 16:00, Reply)

I worked in a pub once
And I do mean once.

It was quite a nice pub in a not nice area of Liverpool, not far from where Rhys Jones got shot.

A mate worked as a barman there and he got me a job collecting galsses, it was Christmas Eve.

Everything was going fine until after last orders, we were all sat around, counting tips and drinking our free drink when it all kicked off. A massive fight broke out, just like you'd see in a film. People were getting hit with chairs, bottles were broken over heads, people were kicked on the floor, the whole thing.

This was clearly not an unusual event because the carstaff worked like a well-ouiled machine: the male barstaff jumped into the fight and tried to break it up, the female barstaff legged it into the kitchen.

the fight went on for a little bit and people were starting to get really hurt when one of the barmaids said to me: "Aren't you going to help?" I just said "no, are you?" and stayed watching from the safety of the kitchen.

Jump into someone else's fight for £2.13 an hour? Like fuck.
(ScousersPet, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:58, 1 reply)

Three men walk into a bar.
The fourth man ducks.
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:55, Reply)

The Wharf
My brother took me for pints at pub in Oxford called the Wharf. We walked up the drive and entered a house in a non-descript suburban cul de sac, greeted by a wave of musty dank air.
AT the bar was a man in a sky-blue tracksuit whose bare feet had long, yellowing unkempt toenails. Next to him was a small female Staffordshire Bull Terrier, leaning on the bar.
Another man was goading Tracksuit by saying the wretched creature should be put down. Tracksuit responded "No!! I luv'er, I just luv 'er to death," and bent down whilst said Staffie lurched up and licked his mouth and teeth.
(TommyShanks, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:47, 2 replies)

Pub in Hucknall Years ago
Years ago i was invited by my dreadlocked stoner friend to go and watch a band at a local-ish boozer, not unusual because we used to gig together quite alot. We got there and got a pint before the band came on. They were called 'NOT CLIFF RICHARD'. I wasn't ready for what happened next, the lead singer came into the audience seconds after it started wearing some kind of baggy leggings and hair all over the shop. I just dodged him by centimeters as he grabbed the guy next to me and threw him over the pool table and began to 'mock' bum him infront of a shocked audience, the lead singer then went on to piss in a blokes pint and light his farts until he shat himself. Then he paraded round with shit stains all over his arse and up his back banging into the crowd. The band were ok and the lead singer eventually half collapsed on the pool table as he shit into another pint glass. This was one of the most surreal, shocking and amusing moments in my life. I haven't seen hide nor hair of them since but recommend taking your mother.!!not.
(whuppingboy, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:36, 6 replies)

Blame Bert for this one....
A cheese sandwich walks into a pub and asks for a pint.

The barman says "Sorry mate, we don't serve food in here."

I am *so* sorry.
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Fri 6 Feb 2009, 15:33, 2 replies)