Pearoast but nevermind...
In good ol' Dewsbury....
Our local drunk is a 4ft 10 man called Colin who wears at least two manchester united shirts at a time. Generally seen walking around town singing or in the local singing. He even does requests for money.

He once did his own rendition of San Francisco, which should of been;
If you're going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you're going to San Francisco
You're gonna meet some gentle people there

however what came out of his mouth was;
If you're going to sang frank friscooooo
Don't....
its full of fucking poofters !

He once dressed up as a postman for halloween
which consisted of his normal clothes but with a stolen royal mail hat.

He also tried pushing one of my friends over, however my friend being the genius he is, moved out of the way, with the result being colin layed on the floor.
He couldn't get back up and layed there for at least 10 minutes before eventually pissing himself.

What a guy!
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 23:02, 2 replies)

people in pubs.
At the local one night,a lad wanders upto the bar and says to the barman "I want my free beer please".
The barman chuckled and asked him politely what he wanted to drink,"NO ! " shouted the lad," I want my free beer !"
Barman " We haven't got any free beer,what are you having son?"
"I'm having my free beer! the sign says so !, I came in here yesterday and now it's today !!!,so I want my free beer !!!!"
By this point the lad was getting really agitated and starts shouting " look mate,the f****n' sign says free beer tomorrow ! "
The trouble was ,even after a few people intervened and tried to explain what the little brass plaque on the bar really meant ,the poor lad still didn't understand,and over the course of the year tried it again a few times but was eventually permanently barred from the establishment.

Another memorable night , somebody brought in a bag of Courgettes from their Allotment,and a very sexy barmaid started fondling the biggest one,digging her nails into it,"oooh" she said,"look at all the milky juice coming out of it",the pub erupted in smutty laughter !

Later on the same night,after closing ,a large group of regulars had gathered outside in the car park,the barmaid from earlier was at the centre of the attention,unfortunately her car had a flat tyre,and try as she might,she couldn't pump it up,so a regular who was watching the short skirted,high heeled courgette fondling beauty quipped in "why don't you just bend over and give it a blow love ?".Poor girl was a tad embarrassed.

Courgettes,brass plaques, barmaids and free beer tomorrow ,all good fun .
(sniffi the cat /remembers/this was /all fields..., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 22:40, Reply)

Last week at The Packhorse pub on the Otley Road in Leeds.
As per usual of a Wednesday night the Leeds Uni Mountaineering Club are upstairs sharing banter when our mate Steve bursts into the room.

"There's people!" He pants, out of breath for some reason.
"There's people having SEX outside!"

Instantly twenty odd climbers scramble out of their seats and press their grubby faces against the even grubbier window and peer into the beer garden.

It's a bitterly cold night but this hasn't stopped two participants of The Otley Run from fulfilling their carnal urges. On one of the picnic benches a pink clad chav-a-like is sat with her legs high in the air and as far apart as they could go while some cocksure dandy penetrated her cavernous rift with all his might.

We gawped in awe at this spectacle as did the old man who had stepped out for a smoke, a bemused but amused look spread across his features, wrinkly as the chavette's minge-slit. Almost as soon as we started watching the bebonered lad was spent and on his likely virulent vinegars. He withdrew and shook his winky before sheathing it back in his trousers.

We could not believe what we had just seen and in fact my friend, a few pints later in The Drydock bar, began poking the girl with my crutch (broken femur, different story) whispering "Sex girl, sex girl"

Thank you Sex Girl (and Sex Boy), you have brightened our lives.
(vibrating tuna, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 22:32, Reply)

It was in Liverpool, my local at the time
She was an elderly lady, well built, singing heartily at full pelt an old folk song, must have been a local one. I never heard it before and never heard it since, but then I'm not a folky one:

"My advice to young girls
Never wed and old man
coz he's got no delorum aye diddle aye dorum
He's got no delorum aye diddle aye day...
He's got no delorum
Aye folcum felorum
My advice to young girls
Never wed and old man"

Presumably she had, and I took heed of the warning and didn't.
(themothers, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 22:29, 2 replies)

Not so much a story as a post praising my favourite pub
Which is The Swan in Ipswich. For a few reasons.

a) San Miguel on tap

b) It's where the 'alternative' people go. By alternative i mean kind of indie types, book store workers, musicians. It is one of only 2 safe havens from dirty chavs, wanker insurance salesmen and scary metalhead types.

c) When the food is served the tables, instead of having numbers are named Hendrix, Richards, Dylan, Moon etc etc. How cool is that?!

d) Every year they have a music festival called Swanfest with lots of good small bands.

I may add other reasons when they occur to me.
(Immy The Great gave himself to Jesus, but now Jesus never calls, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 22:11, 7 replies)

Wayne's pains
There's a pub in Oxford opposite the big theatre - the Grapes I think it's called. I'm at the bar getting my round when the guy next to me asks the barmaid for two of those dinky bottles of Woodpecker - one unopened for later - and lo, it's diminutive prancer Wayne Sleep. He must have just finished over the road (hence the considerably older crowd in tonight), and nipped in to slake his thirst on a tiny amount of weak, sweet cider.
Everyone's really pleased to see him and starts telling him so, and he goes round the pub shaking hands, talking to people, taking time and being genuinely nice to one and all. As he's leaving the pub, he's won us all over, and his erstwhile audience are saying what a top chap he is. The pub shouts out in unison "bye Wayne". Wayne turns to give a theatrical wave goodbye, and then twirls back and faceplants the closing door. No-one can help but to laugh and the poor bugger nips out, rather red of face.
(johninnit, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 22:11, 1 reply)

My mates and I...
...were in our local boozer and it was my round so I dutifully went to the bar. As I was waiting to get served I overheard the two men next to me speaking.

1st man: I could have sex with any woman in this place.
2nd man: How come?
1st man: I'm a rapist

coat, hull etc etc.
(Immy The Great gave himself to Jesus, but now Jesus never calls, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 22:00, Reply)

Two men walk into a bar...
they don't get hurt and have a pleasent, enjoyable evening.
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 21:55, 1 reply)

Pissed
As usual.

On the way to a gig in Preston. Neverland, I believe.

In the back of Tall Paul's Austin Princess and being the smallest I'm shoe-horned into the back seat behind Tall Paul's pushed back as far as it goes Sniff and the Tears Driver's Seat.

My legs are bent into drinking straw shapes but of more pressing concern is my bladder. Because I should'nt - SHOULD'NT - have scoffed that fifth pint in The Friars because Tall Paul won't stop to let me piss on the M6.

And every - fucking - hedgehog - we run over is another jolt to my tortured internal parts.

Man is simply not designed to carry five pints of Hartleys Best (God rest it's hallucinagenic soul) down the M6 in an Austin Princess.

So we get to the pub in Preston where the gig is. I expect - I'm not sure - that I was a puce colour by this stage and slightly foaming at the mouth.

I burst in, clutching my crotch and sweating profusely, panting "Where'syerbogwhere'syerbogwhere'syerbog?"

"Down the corridor - first left" I dimly heard.

So in my panting, crouched, badly internally bruised state I unleashed my bits, relief ironing out the deeply ingrained furrows on my forehead and shouldered open the door first left.

Which was the kitchen.

And once you pop, you can't stop.

Kids. If you're ever in trouble. Make sure you ask someone who knows their left from their right.
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 21:36, Reply)

Sealed Knot people are odd
We are merrily getting drunk in the Kings arms, Saffron Walden, a twee little town in north essex, which is very close to Audley End Manor.

There used to be a huge sealed knot battle recreation done every year and then they would all stroll into town for grog and wenches.

So there we are, minding our own business and getting rather drunk and loud when a man bursts in the pub, dressed in ye olde clothes, half a bush sticking out of various button holes while brandishing a musket and a fuck off great big sword

"When I was in 'Nam" he bellowed

we all stared at him

"Cheltenham!!" he roared, then threatened the barman with said sword until he got a pint of IPA.

Hmm, was funnier when it happened.

Oh well, we also evacuated the pub once when someone bashed out an entire packet of turkish 'cigarettes' to all the smokers, after about 10 minutes there was a green haze at about head height and people were starting to gag. Foul foul things.
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 21:25, Reply)

So
Having spent a great deal of my life quaffing ale, I got introduced gradually to wine. During a period of not having a lot of spare cash, but still wanting to socialise in hostelries, I noticed that one pub had an offer on that was too good to miss.

Buy a glass of wine for £1.50. Buy the bottle, and it's your's for a fiver.

Fucking bargain. That'll do me.

So I wandered up to the bar. "What kind of wine do you have?", says I.

"Red or white", comes the grunting reply.

"Yeah, but what grapes?"

*Shrugs*

I'll try again.

"Have you got a Semillon?"

*Pause*

"Nah, mate, it's just the way I'm standing".


Sorry
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 20:46, 7 replies)

Just a coincidence
I've spent a few months working in the North West of Scotland, staying in a tiny village called Strathcarron. 3 miles away is the metropolis of Lochcarron (pop. 900). There is one pub called, amazingly, The Lochcarron Hotel...

Imagine my utter amazement to see the tap room of the Lochcarron Hotel feature in the useless shit pic competition as the first image in the 'spyhole dartboard'....the bloke throwing the darts is called Gus....

Who'da thunk it?
( Larry Death Anger Pain Fear Aggression, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 20:38, Reply)

Here's the rub
mine make me all scratchy, especially when they are growing back in.
( Fire & Forget it's the only way to be sure, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 20:29, Reply)

Theres this place I know...
You!
I wanna take you to a gay bar,
I wanna take you to a gay bar,
I wanna take you to a gay bar, gay bar, gay bar.

Let's start a war, start a nuclear war,
At the gay bar, gay bar, gay bar.
Wow!
At the gay bar.
Now Tell me do ya?, but do ya have any money?
I wanna spend all your money,
at the gay bar, gay bar, gay bar.
(Pause)

I've got something to put in you,
I've got something to put in you,
I've got something to put in you,
At the gay bar, gay bar, gay bar.
Wow!

You're a superstar, at the gay bar.
You're a superstar, at the gay bar.
Yeah! you're a superstar, yeah at the gay bar.
You're a superstar, at the gay bar.
Superstar.
Super, super, superstar
(kitescreech still here, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 20:15, 1 reply)

My local
The King Billy; been going there since I was 17 (so thats 22 years!). Its nice and quiet and not much happens there. We sit in the corner and play card games (Lunch money, Magic, Rummy) put metal on the Jukebox, play pool badly...its like a home from home.
(kitescreech still here, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 20:06, 1 reply)

Rubbish pub just outside Brighton
It's August. It's a lovely day. Our band is on the final day of our seventeen day tour, and we're rounding things off with a gig in happening and vibrant Brighton. This is very exciting. So, we put the postcode into Tomtom and we're off!

Worryingly, we get nearer and nearer to our destination and still no sign of interesting city. Rather, that faintly depressing kind of village that's been ruined by housing estates and light industry that are so prevalent along the South Coast. Still, boys, it might be a nice venue, right?

We pull up outside.

Still, it might be nice on the inside, right?

There were two men in there, drunk. It was three pm. One of them turned out to be the landlord. No sign of the promoter or sound guy. I'm sure those of you who've been in bands can more or less fill in the gaps from here, but suffice to say, it wasn't a good gig.

The event that sticks in my mind, though, is that at some point in the interminable hours of waiting around before we actually got to play, I decided to go for a shit. Possibly to kill time, or possibly just because my bowels were letting me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't see to them soon they'd make my life very difficult indeed, the reason is insignificant now.

So, to the toilets I went. You can imagine the quality of the toilets. So, I chose the one cubicle with some semblance of a lock, and to business I set.

This particular one, I remember, was going to give in without a fight. It staged something of a Ned Kelly-esque last stand in the post office of my colon, and as such, things are taking rather a long time.

Mid way through, when Team Gut was beginning to turn the tide against the dark forces of the tenacious turd, I heard someone come in. He was drunk and middle aged, so it was either the landlord, or the other bloke. He slurred something incomprehensible. 'Hello?' I replied, to establish if he was talking to me. A long pause, then more slurring. I said nothing.

Another person enters, who was the other bloke (the first having been the landlord). A conversation occured between them in the form of guttural grunts. I was perturbed, but not overly so, I had no idea what they were talking about, but I assumed it wasn't me.

Suddenly, a face appears over the top of the door, reddened and flabby, it's the landlord. Angry Grunts. He and his friend start trying to break the door down.

Break the door down? What? Why? Nothing I say seems to placate them, so I set hastily about wiping (fortunately, it had been difficult, but not overly messy) then just as my trousers were again up, the door crashes down. With faces of thunder, the landlord and his pal shout at me. I didn't understand much, but he definitely told me, several times 'You can't just do that in my pub!'. I was under the impression that's what toilets are for, but being the meek and non-confrontational individual I am, I actually apologised. I am ashamed of myself. I apologised for taking a shit in a shitter. I then fled and tried to avoid the barman for the rest of my stay at his luxurious establishment. I'm pretty sure he passed out soon after, so it wasn't hard, but still.

Anyway, the moral of this is, avoid pubs that tell you they're in Brighton when they're not, and never apologise for shitting.
(WarneMarsh My priority for frivolity begets quality jollity, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:44, 1 reply)

501s
Back during a time when Levi 501s were a big deal - branded jeans, rather than unbranded jeans, seems quaint now - me and a bunch of my student house mates wandered down to the Fighting Cocks for some pints. It was a busy night but we arrived just as a bunch of people were scraping their chairs to leave, so almost two steps in the door we had a table to ourselves in a packed thronging pub. Result!

Drinks in, the session commences. Theres a bunch of people standing beside us and someone amongst them is holding court - full of the gab, full of the stories, very animated. He takes a step back to emphasise something and clatters into our table, enough to send all the glasses wobbling, but luckily non fall over.

He spins round, mid anecdote, and apologises profusely. Its a long apology and it turns into a bit of a performance, introductions, banter, hilarity. Its a strange act - stories, jokes, facts, questions. But its weird, its almost like he's busking. Can't remember any of it, there was just a lot of it. He's holding our court now.

As the evening wears on his pals get bored and restless, tug his shirt, but he keeps going. One of them grabs the back pocket of his 501s and starts trying to pull him away. Our new friend keeps gabbing, but with the addition now of nose taps and winks. More pulling, and he's holding onto the table and still won't stop talking, when

-RRRRIPPP-

the pocket on his jeans tears, its left flapping by the rivets.

Theres a sudden silence, we're poised to jump in and fight for the valour of OUR friend, they tore his Levi's for gods sake! People only have one pair!


Then he just carries on, more banter and more banter. More attempts by his pals to steal him away. They end up grabbing both back pockets, and with him and us grasping the table, its a tug of war. Somehow he's still talking.


RRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIPPP

He stands before us with the front of his jeans hanging from the waistband like a gay cowboy's chaps, the back of them is lying on the floor attached only by the hems round his ankles.

Theres a long pause, everyone in the pub goes quite. He has a shuffle around with the back of his pants following him around like a badly drawn shadow.

"You cunt!" Someone shouts from behind him "Every time you come and crash at my house you nick a pair of my boxer shorts"

He leans into to us "Wait til he realises these are his jeans tool"
(lankygingerfool, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:41, 1 reply)

Back from the dead.
Back in the day, when I lived in Dublin, my work mates and I used to spend most lunchtimes in our local pub. This pub was staggering distance from work, served great toasted specials, had nice bar staff, and was frequented by a lot of old locals. One particular lunchtime a group of us were huddled in a corner snug when we saw an old woman rushed up to the bar and shout at the barman, "he's dead, get an ambulance!" The old dear was referring to her husband, who had been sitting next to her having a pint, when he apparently shuffled off his mortal coil. Panic was about to set in when the old guy looked up and said, "I'm not dead!" His wife looked really pissed off at him and we spent the rest of the lunchtime giggling like school kids in the corner. What really made it funny, was that the old dear appeared more cross than relieved
(Woofie, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:30, 1 reply)

Pearoast time.
Binge drinking is bad.
A
s a former nightclub doorman i have ssen many things that could make you blush and quite a few that could mmake you hurl. This story is one of the latter and I apologise in advance

Come closing time at a very famous Australian chain bar in Birmingham, I was clearing the toilets af the straggling customers. In the ladies after everyone departed I realised that one of the cubicles was locked. So I perched myself on the adjoining toilet to enable me to see over the partition. Upon looking into the cubicel I find the following. A young lady in her early twenties asleep on the loo. Knickers round her ankles, she has also been sick, however the vomit is nicly perched in her underwear. My colleague and i decided to wake her up without knocking the door down so as to avoid startling her. So we went and got a pint of water which was mpassed to me to tip over the cubicle wall. So I clamber back onto the toilet and proceed to tip the water over the poor girl. At which point she comes too.

"Sorry hun were closed" says I

"Ok no probs" says lady.

Then the unthinkable without checking she yanks the vomit filled undies up takes two steps out of the cubicle, realises what is going on bursts into tears and runs out the front door. My colleague and I are laughing so hard that I fall off the toilet that im standing on into him breaking his wrist.

hehehehehehehe

She came back the next week.
(kickstandrich last had sex with your mum/sister/wife/daughter on, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:26, 3 replies)

God vs Tyson
Many years ago in a packed out local boozer we were all excitedly and drunkenly watching Bruno fight Iron Mike.

We all know the outcome now, but during the fight there were a couple of moments when it looked like big Frank might win.

At one particularly exciting point, during all the cheering, shouting and beer throwing, in the middle of about 150 people I shouted out "Go on Frank- belt the fucker- do it for the baby Jesus!"

No idea why. Nor did the other 150 people who took a moment to turn around and stare at me in confused silent unison.
(chezanova, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:21, 3 replies)

bloody customers (literally)
My one proper pub job. I was a bar steward (arf - still am sometimes). One night after work, during the obligatory lock in, one of the regulars, a youngish twenty something, asks for a game of pool with me. Sure why not, he seems a nice bloke.

Thrashed him. Repeatedly. He didnt take too well and kicked off. i tried to avoid the confrontation (I was sober dont forget, been working all night), but at the point i was on my arse with sore face, I got annoyed. Jumped up and proceeded to belt him shitless with the pool stick. Broke a couple of them over him, and he wasnt in the mood for hitting me any more.

What happened? They fired me. Self fuckin defence, m'lud sorted the assault with weapon charges, but was barred from me local for life. Boo.

*edit* for some reason, I went overkill on the commas in this post. yay for maded up grammar.
(shamen Geekius Maximus, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:20, 1 reply)

Nob Slamming
While in our local about 8 or 9 years ago, we were hailed from the bar by a fella who asked if we wanted to see a trick. Of course we did.

He came over, whapped his willy out, placed it on our table, picked up one of those big heavy glass ashtrays placed it precariously on top and leant on it, lifting his entire body weight off the floor. His cock was splayed out like a fleshy pancake underneath. Revolting.

He asked us all outside to see another one, where aided by a friend he slammed his cock under the bonnet of his car.

He was our hero.
(headwood, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 19:06, 2 replies)

Do you think I'm fit ?
This happened only about two years ago. Twas in a club so there was loud music and with my favourite friend Exstacy. I was getting on very well with a girl, Lots of dancing and messing about. We ended up leaning against a speaker with our faces stuck together. When we prised ourselves apart she shouted over the bass line to me, that she was going to the loo. Then lent forward and said to me.

"Do you think I'm thick"

I replied "No of course not" She went off but never returned. After thinking about what she said it was obviously.

"Do you think I'm FIT"

Once again, Pill Popper shot himself in the foot, with both barrels.

Lenght about 110 decibels!
(Pill Popper Thank you Sasha Shulgin, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:59, 1 reply)

I used to work in a hotel...
... which had a 5-foot-tall wooden sign board of a chef holding a blackboard, that we wrote the day's specials on.

One of the guests, who had partaken of many fine local ales stumbled out of the bar, staggered and sidestepped across the lobby, and found his way to the taigh bheag blocked by this white-hatted diminutive figure.

"Gurrouw-ahwah way"

The wooden chef grinned cheerily back at him, silently announcing that today's soup had been cream of tomato and basil.

"GAHRAHTUH FUHUN WUAH"

The wooden chef flashed his winning smile, and just as silently as before proclaimed that the clams in white wine were only eight quid.

THUD. The pisshead planted one on the poor beleaguered wooden chef. What had he done to deserve this? Indecisively he swayed, his fight-or-flight reflexes stilled - curse this 28mm marine ply body! Sway, sway... and toppled forwards with his not inconsiderable 40-odd kilos, trapping his assailant underneath.

Decked by the wooden chef.

Length? Well if the base had been longer he might have stayed upright.
(gordonjcp, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:57, 3 replies)

about 5 years ago
I used to work at the Leadmill in Sheffield, a popular city centre nightclub, and during the night we used to find all sorts of things scattered across the dancefloor, from money, to wristwatches, to bank cards, and so on.
One particular saturday night, after the event had finished and the punters started to leave, the place looked like a bombsite, and we sorta picked an area to start sweeping.
Whilst I was doing this, there was a few lone punters who'd still not left the club yet, and one scottish chap approached me telling me that his wife had lost a pin badge of a dog, and how she was devestated blah blah blah, and to us it'd only be worth a fiver, but to her it meant alot, and 30quid was in it for us if we found it, he also stated that it was like a family heirloom or summat..

..y on earth would u take a family heirloom out on a night out?..
(Lord Chode, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:53, Reply)

Animals
I was in a pub once and a horse walked in. I said, 'You can't leave that lion there'

Hang on.
( JeffTheDogFucker Can you dig it?, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:50, Reply)

Sorry miss
The dog ate my homework and the bus didn't turn up.
( idonthaveafunnynickname Drink-Aware? Sure. I'm aware I want another drink., Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:12, 1 reply)

I once went to a pub
As i walked in i noticed something that caught my eye. It was a sign above the bar.
Pint Of Carling - £2.20
Chicken Sandwhich - £3.50
Handjob - £10.00
As you can imagine i was excited to say the least. Especially as the 3 girls working behind the bar were undeniably beautiful.
"shit!" i checked my pockets and found 2 measly pounds! This was not enough. I was a student and times were tough and times were even more tough when you forgot to go to the bank on the way to the local.
I asked round a few aquaintances that i had come to know through uni and eventually reached the needed amount for the one thing that would make my night spectacular.
I walked over to the bar with a huge smile that cherie blair would of been proud of.
I beckoned one of the gorgeous blondes working behind the bar over to where i was stood.
"excuse me, are you one of the girls that gives handjobs?" i asked nervously
"yes i am" she purred
"well wash your fucking hands i want a chicken sandwich"

It tasted delicious. That was a good night.
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 18:00, 1 reply)

The King Street Run
Cambridge, was a bit of a mad place, its saner now (the beano comics are not on the ceiling any more, and most of the film quotes have gone) but one little quirk still remains.

The gents door to be precise.

The metal push sign is positioned on the left hand side of the door. Striding towards the door, presenting your hand on the push sign and continuing your velocity will result in you splattering yourself across the door and falling into the latrines.

Regulars ignore the push sign and go for the right hand side, or slump at the middle and hope if a bit too pissed

Never fails to be funny when you hear a crumpled "argh!" from the corner during a session.
(Halfy By light alone, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 17:43, 6 replies)