The first lock-in
Back in the day, before the laws changed, there was the "lock-in". Sure, some pubs had strange licensing laws due to proximity to hospitals, markets and so on but they didn't count (neither did Scotland or the House of Commons bar). For the rest of us, 11 pm was last orders; unless you found a "lock in" which would have you.

Most "lock ins" only worked for the regulars in there. You might notice that none of the regulars are looking worried at 23:15 because they would be sitting comfortable whilst you were being chased out by bar staff.

So, the first "lock-in" was a rite of passage.

Mine happened in a pub in Northfield, Birmingham. God knows how I'd ended up in there, with some friends - the place was underneath a multi-storey car park, below ground level. Hence the lack of windows - never a pleasant sight, especially in a city where the worst IRA pub bombing took place in just such a venue.

Anyway, I didn't know it was a lock-in, and was already hammered by the witching hour of 11pm. Gradually though my internal clock started telling my brain that something did not compute. Checking my watch - yes, it's 11:30 pm and goodness me, they're still serving.

Of course, that was a red rag to a bull. The only way I could repay the debt I felt to the management for such munificence was to drink long and hard. I remember by about 01:00 the drinks were being served by a 12-year old boy, showing that they could break even more laws, the feckless owners.

I had lock-ins afterwards, in many ways they were much better, but nothing ever matched the first flush of realising that for once I had fought the law, and the law lost...
( I_Was_Mordred, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 14:40, 2 replies)

ow ow ow ow ow ow ow
Thank the lord you were not drinking in the Leigh Social Club in Caerphilly, South Wales watching Wales beat England 11-9 on the 5th Feb 2005.

A drunk welsh man makes a boast or threat about self mutilation if Wales won, which they promptly did. So after the game he wandered off out of the bar, hacks off his testicles with wire cutters then strolls (limps?) back in and presents his rather bloodied and no longer attached scrotum to the drinkers.

whatsthecrack.net/Welsh-Rugby-fan-cut-off-his-own-testicles
(Halfy By light alone, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 14:33, 3 replies)

Apologise for the terrible accent
I was back home in Northumberland, drinking with my dad in his local on a weeknight. Into the quiet, dark country boozer comes Jackie, an ancient awld gadgee shepherd who everyone knows, he sits quietly with his bottle of stout in a corner and rarely says more than occasional "ye knaa" and "aye man" at the conversations in the pub. It's the sort of place where all the conversations are shared, being small and quiet. Anyway, someone was talking about a pub further away, called the Dyke Neuk Inn, when wor Jackie pipes up in his broad northumbrian:
"Aye - the Dyke Neuk - Ah used te drink theor, man ye knaa" Everyone falls silent.
"Did you now Jackie?" someone says, to encourage him to talk a bit more.
"Aye - Ah used te gan in at 6 every neet like, ye kna. Aye right. Ah used te knaa al the lassies behind thu bar, aye. Aye. Ennyweey, Yin neet ah gans in at 7, acause Ah'd bin oot wid the yows, ye knaa. An de ye knaa what the wifey says to is?"
The pub lies silent waiting for Jackie's words of wisdom, the man having never said more than three words at one in 25 years.
"She gans, "Eee Jack! Yer late!""

pffft.
(sarahahaha, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 13:37, 1 reply)

so many drunken blurred highlights over the years including:
Some chav being given a handjob by his more than likely underage mrs behind a plastic palm tree.

Betting a mate he couldn't drink 2 pints of fosters via a straw up each nostril, he did and promptly passed out.

Same mate taking this girl out on their first date, puking all over her shoes and then getting kicked out by the bouncers only to strip off and piss in a flowerbed by the pub, he got nicked for that one, they were together for 2 years despite this though...

New game of "Viking darts" created whereby all three darts are thrown at once and with full force, cue broken window and getting barred.

And seeing this little old dude walk up to a group of women and casually unzip his flies to dunk his bollocks in one girl's pint to the utter horror of the rest of the pub

The joys of going out drinking in former coal mining slums... Will post more if I can remember/be arsed.
(Suomi_Finland_Perkele knocking 256 shades of shit out of your screen on, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 13:34, Reply)

Del Boy
You Know the clip, Well someone did the same thing in my local, after everyone had stopped pissing themselves laughing we noticed he needed a few stitches to a bad head wound, he was dispached to hospital in an Ambulance.
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 13:30, 1 reply)

Gus
Gus was a great guy, He was an old Irish fella that was a permanent fixture of the pub, Every day he would be at his usual spot at the end of the bar slowly getting wasted on pint after pint of Guinness.
His usual attire was a trampy look except for St Patrick's day when he would be clean shaven, hair washed and he would wear his best suit and tie.

The Pub is located on the corner of two streets in Birmingham and had at the time two entrances to the place so you could go out the side door and walk round the corner and in through the main door.

Not a problem for most.

One day Gus decided he had enough and staggered home out of the front door only to appear a few minutes later at the side door looking very confused.

He walked up to the bar and slurred 'does your brother work in the pub down the road? because the is a guy down there that is your exact double."
"and i'll ave a pint of Guinness seeing as I'm here"

Great Guy
( Terry Oblong There's nobody here but us chickens on, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 13:22, 2 replies)

I am 16 years old
and wondering aimlessley around Rochester with my friends one quiet Sunday with nothing to do but smoke shitty joints and try to get served alcohol.

Little pikeys that we were.

Somehow we end up in the most God awful hellhole pub which, on a Sunday afternoon/early evening has an 'exotic dancers' show. Nice

I use the term 'exotic' very loosely as what ensued was the most bizarre, un-erotic, awkward THING I've ever witnessed. The lovely ladies were obviously bottom of the barrel in terms of nasty strippers, and looked like the kind of shrivelled harridans you would pay to stay away from you all evening.

So there we are, mouths gaped open in horror and being glared at by the pub owner who circles our table like an angry buzzard.

"We don't normally like having girls here for this." She hisses at me and my friend (we are the only females out of our group)

"Um I think we're just about to leave now."

So we bolt out of there like a bat out of hell and I make my way back home, trying to shake the smell of depraved old men and weed off my clothes and the image of the ugliest stripper and her saggy backside out of my head.

Its still there :(
(Eldoofus, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 12:52, 4 replies)

Darts
A few friends and I got into a game of darts with some long haired bikers / greasers when we were about 18 / 19.

The beers were slipping down nicely, and we found ourselves in a winning situation. A round of drinks would soon be within our grasp.

The bikers / greasy cunts didn't take too kindly to this, and various insults were traded whilst we were playing, and what started as banter quickly turned more nasty. Indeed, we thought that pretty soon we would be in for some fisticuff action.

My mate, nicely drunk, walks up to me as I am supping on my pint and approaching the oche and says loudly "Let the wookie win" I sprayed my pint everywhere, laughed loudly, and sure enough we found ourselves in a fight.

We held up well against the much older, hairier blokes, but soon we were overwhelmed by them, so we then put together our magic rings and summoned Captain Planet. But when he turned up, he found there was no environmental evil afoot, so he ordered a pint of bitter and had a go on the fruity.
(Spaff_Quaffer Wise fwom your gwave., Sun 8 Feb 2009, 12:31, Reply)

The moths flew out of my wallet,
and I looked up at the barman, who was looking at me in pity. Grimacing, I turned away and decided to nurse what was left of my ale. The overcrowded bar smelled of cigarettes, spilled beers, body sweat and the faint trace of a woman's perfume. The taste was acrid at the back of my throat. The noise of everyone laughing and talking and joking was almost too much to bear, a dull roar I couldn't focus enough on to listen to any one conversation out of the dozens that were going on around me.

I raised my glass to my lips and sipped slowly, closing my eyes momentarily before opening them and letting my head hang forward to stare at my hand wrapped protectively around my ale.

"Two Strongbows please" said a soft voice over to the right from me. I concentrated on what was left of my ale, watching the bubbles on the head of the beer slowly rise from the bottom of the glass to the top, bursting at the top with a fizz that was inaudible in the noisy pub.
A glass of cider was pushed in front of my line of vision. I looked up blearily and saw the barman nod at a girl who was looking at me with an odd expression on her face.

I tried to figure it out. She was smiling, but it wasn't the smile of someone who was enjoying themselves - it was more like she saw straight through me, to the deepest corners of my mind, where the darkest parts of myself were struggling to break free and consume me.
Like she suddenly knew everything about me - but still wanted to do something to brighten my day.

I hated it. Resented it. I wasn't a charity case. I felt anger flare briefly inside me, yet it died instantly when I looked at her eyes. Her beautiful, gray eyes. They were worn and tired, and looked like they were brimming with secrets, things she wanted to say - but never could. There was an incredible amount of sadness behind those eyes.

I suddenly understood the reason behind the cider. Something of myself I could see in her eyes, and I knew she could see something of herself in mine.
I raised my glass, toasted her, watched as she did the same, and then we slowly quaffed from the glasses, and I felt the ice cold cider slip down my throat. Throughout, her eyes never left mine. I couldn't notice anything but her eyes, not her pale skin, rounded face, thick blond hair. They were all just blurred into the background.

I finished my drink and stood up. Slowly, I walked carefully over to her. Aware that there were people around me, and that the barman was watching our silent exchange out of the corner of his eye, I simply lent down and let my lips brush against hers for the briefest of moments, feeling the warmth of her hand sinking into my waist where she'd placed it, smelling the scent of her perfume. Roses, I thought, or maybe freesias.

I straightened, looked at her, felt a hot stinging in my eyes before walking out of the bar into the cool air outside to sink against the wall of the pub. I closed my eyes and felt a small, fine hand slip into mine and smelt the scent of her perfume on the air.

"Thank you." I breathed, squeezing her hand.

This is the first time I've ever done this....so I'm sorry if it's not good enough :(
(Poppet some assembly required., Sun 8 Feb 2009, 12:06, 12 replies)

Pub Monkey
Quick Question.

Has anyone, other than me, been visited after the pub by the Invisible Pub Monkey?

He's the one who throws your clothes all over the house, destroys the kitchen, rifles your wallet (you went out with fifty quid, had 7 pints and now have 7p left), sends *highly* inappropriate texts from your phone at 3am and then shits in your mouth and leaves.

Or is it just me?

Cheers
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 11:17, 8 replies)

A man walks into a Public Enemy
and has a Long Island Ice T.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 10:25, Reply)

this is one of mine
don't know if any of you are from REading, but i spent a night abusing the cocktails in the purple turtle a couple days before new years one year with some friends. this is a pearoast BTW if it sounds familiar, i simply have more time to tell the full tale now.
i basically drank a bit of EVERYTHING, at which point some bright spark suggested going next door to the fez club... this place does CHEAP double vodka with mixers for £2

after that, things are somewhat of a blur. i apparetly slid down a concrete/metal staircase on my arse. i ALLEGEDLY called some blonde girl a whore then asked for a quickie.
i then left, wandering home with my mate, whooping and running about pretending to be a plane. i rugby tackled a bin off it's concrete base. i then decided that on no account was i to go home without purchasing chicken in inhuman quantities, BUT i was WAY too drunk to order, and instead settled for lying on the floor of the chicken shop, laughing like a hyena, and banging on the counter while my veggie mate tried to guess at what i wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~wavey lines indicating blank period~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


i wake up. it's about 9am, and a small but fierce animal is burrowing round in my skull.
rubbing my face i become aware i'm coated in some kind of green slime. is this some alien menace i wonder? what could have befallen me? the sore arse could hint at some kind of cartman-esque anal probe. as the room comes into shakey focus, i realise i am stark.bollock.naked. EXCEPT for a studded jack daniels belt and socks. the light is on, the door is open, and i am on top of the duvet.
there is the pulverised remains of a large avocado in my right hand.

wandering through the lounge past the sleeping bodies of my mate and his two friends i vaguely remembered, (obviously now better attired) to the toilet i see the christmas tree is broken and de-baubled. there is stuff all over the kitchen floor where two drawers have been emptied frantically. what the fuck has been going on i ask myself?

entering the toilet, i see a pile of my clothes. my entire outfit from the night, neatly piled in front of the shitter. including a pair of converse chuck t's, wit the laces cut all the way down (and one of the tongues) and a pair of scissors.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~wavey lines~~~~~~~~~~~

my friends reliably tell me i got in, started a fight with the christmas tree, chucked some drawers about, boked in the garden whilst singing, then went to the toilet, got bollock naked apart from socks and a belt, wandered back through, inot my room past the horrified new mates, came back out accusing everyone of leaving an alien in my bed (the avocado) headbutted the shit out of it, (the green slime) then went back in and passed out.




the best bit was climbing inot bed that night to find that i'd managed to be violently, and colourfully sick UNDER the duvet.



happy days.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 9:36, 5 replies)

now THIS is dedication to the cause
some aussie guys i knew were going out for a works meal then hitting the walkabout for a spot of booze and slag-fondling. i met up wit hthem after the meal.. they left early because one of them had overdone the red wine, leaned back, yacked up a lake of half-digested pasta, and just walked out leaving a restaurant full of horrified staff and coworkers. he was still up for drinking though!
the second aussie guy was seemingly a lot more chipper. we got in to the walkabout, got him some beers, (this is summer so shorts weather= this is important to remember)
he started chatting up this girl, seemed to be making good headway. then disaster struck.
he tells me he tried to sneak out a fart, thinking as you do that in a crowd it would be easy to pass the blame.

what happened was about a pint of molten arse-lava came boiling out of his arse like old faithful, and poured out of his beige-coloured shorts onto the dance floor. he uttered the now immortal line
' sorry love, i'll be right back, i think i've shit meself!
and waddles out of the club, stinking like a dead dog on a hot day.

the fucker walked the mile or so home as no taxi would touch him, showered, changed, sauntered back in to the club an hour later, AND STARTED CHATTING UP THE SAME GIRL AGAIN!!!!

hats off to ya mate, wherever you are now, you're a fucking LEGEND.
(UppityDamnPrimate LET'S OPEN THIS F*CKING PIT UP, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 8:58, 3 replies)

Went to the Full Moon in Swansea once.......
...for a pool match. I knew it wasn't a good sign when we saw police tape draping from beside their front door and a crime lab setup in the middle of the road outside working on a dead body (I kid you not, a hit-n-run 20 minutes before we got there). We walk in rather nervously to a tattoo riddled establishment. Even their fucking Alsatian had a tattoo too. Loads of the "Lock Stck" variety glaring at us as we walked in and we found one table in a shadow in the corner and sank in, us all totally aware of all eyes prying at us. A skinny old woman in a vest served us at the bar ("Errrr, just a coke thanks" as it was from the can) and a rather terrifying pool match began. We won 7-1 due to rushing the matches, just for the want to get the fuck out of dodge. It was most probably our best result all season too; it's amazing what the smell of death does to your perception :p
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 8:26, 1 reply)

Motown-City of Broken Glass
Two dykes fucking each other with pool cues in a bar in Detroit.
(Devilbabytales, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 7:08, 2 replies)

Eye-ree-land
I was in a pub in Northern Ireland (Jackie Mullens?) and me and a few mates had a bit too much to drink. Since it was my first time to the Emerald Isle I was out of sorts. So then this dwarf guy walks in, looking like an Leprechaun so I started shaking him and asking where his pot of gold was. Some guy started yelling at me, so I ducked into the mens room and there were 2 guys passed out on the floor in their own vomit. The smell was making me sick so I got out of there, but my shoes smelled like vomit so I took em off and someone threw em at the band.
To this day I want to find Stella Artois and punch em out.
(Peripheral Visionary, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 6:52, Reply)

So we were in the Hatchets in Bath...
...back when it was a fairly grizzly biker bar, last time I looked it was called "The Old Crow" or something, and was expensively trying to recreate the charm it used to have before whoever took it over fucked with it.

Anyway, 4 of us are having a quiet pint next to a table of skinheads - an unusual clientele for this bar, as, this being the '80s, it's more greebo and grease. You know that scene in Trainspotting, where Begbie kicks off a pub brawl "Which one a you raj cants glassed yon wee lassie?" etc? Well, that's what our cueball headed friends did here - full glass hurled randomly, only to (luckily) bounce off my friend's head. Then the entire table (a triangle of cueballs?) leave sharpish. "Right" says the harder members of my table, "They're not getting away with that...", so up they get and run after them. Myself and an equally timid friend follow at a brisk walk, heading up Parsonage Lane. Suddenly, *screaming* around the corner tears my hard mates, long hair streaming like digital music "Fuckin' Run!!!!" says Rob, legs like pistons as he barrels down the cobbles. In close pursuit are some *30* skinheads either looking for some aggro, or desperately in need of a toilet, I didn't stop to enquire. I "fucking ran!!!" all the way to the Ring 'O Bells in Widcombe.

...And, in the same pub, a truly sublime moment. I was sat in there having a post rugby pint, and in walked a man with a violin case. Falling into conversation with this chap, I bought him a drink in exchange for a tune, likening him to a minstrel of yore (He had a crispy coating that wouldn't melt in my hand). He played the most delicate, exquisite melody just for me, bringing the pub to a respectful, awe-full silence, punctuated with some genuine and respectful applause. He couldn't be persuaded to do an encore, or indeed even another beer, as he had an engagement in a few hours - as the first violinist of the BBC Symphony Orchestra, I later deduced.
(Mousy Tongue ...Generally bemused by life..., Sun 8 Feb 2009, 5:37, 1 reply)

It is hard to know where to start
There is a pub called The Greyhound near where I used to live in St Kilda, Melbourne. This pub is frequented mainly by washed up middle aged folk who have spent most of their lives taking huge quantities of illegal substances. Needless to say, Sunday night karaoke is quite an interesting way to spend a surreal evening. I shall list a few of the things I have personally witnessed.

Keith - There is no other way of describing Keith other than odd. He wears loud suits and talks utter bollocks, hes very reminicent of Uncle Pete(Charlie Chuck) from Vic Reeves Big Night Out. Hes the kind of person you would imagine in your head if you were to think about how I person would look and behave if they had taken LSD every day for about 15 years. What Keith likes to do whilst singing his song is thow packets of spam in to the audience and prepare sandwiches for them using food secreted upon his person. He is particularly inventive as to where he hides this food as to the actual food items themselves. Luckily I have never seen him produce anything from the more obvious hiding place but I would guess its only a matter of time.

Margie - She is a mid 40s lady who, whilst belting out Queen songs badly, models different T-Shirts for a man known only as Dirty Kurty, you will have to trust me when I tell you that this name is quite apt. For reasons known only to herself she frequently abandons the modelling part of the show and likes to bare her breasts. After seeing what naked clock guy has to offer this is sometimes a welcome interlude. Unfortunately however if Margie is particularly refreshed she has been known to get completely naked and lie on her back with legs apart and nothing left to the imagination. Believe me when I tell you that this is not a welcome nor pretty site, this behaviour usually results in people taking off their own clothes in order to throw them at Margie in the hope of covering some of her up and saving the rest of us from having to use too much mind bleach. I have also personally witnessed Margie dancing naked on the stage with her own pet Greyhound. In fairness the dog does seem to enjoy the attention.

Naked Clock Man - He likes to take his clothes off and sing his song stark naked with a clock hung around his neck. On occasion I have also seen him with the numbers of a clock drawn around his manly bits and with a bit of strung attached to his member he will point it to different numbers whilst he sings. Nobody knows what the significance of the clock is and frankly are too afraid to ask. I have also seen him perform with a live rat balanced on his bits. As the compare so delicately put it "It only hangs on there for the promise of cheese"

These three are amongst the regular performers, there are other and occasionally stranger people who come and go. Usually the two compares are drunk and on various drugs and this can make for a higly entertaining evening.

So anyway, if you fancy a cheap and terrifying night of entertainment when you next visit Melbourne, get yourself a tetanus shot, head down The Greyhound and strap yourself in.
( lord turkey boy and the cleft of venus, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 4:15, 4 replies)

Oral

Loud and rowdy pub in Camden.

A girl started simulating oral sex with a Bud bottle. Lots of clapping and cheering.

"That's nothing," said the fella sat on the next table, who promptly turned to his boyfriend, unzipped his fly, and proceeded to feed his huge and rapidly hardening cock into the back of his mouth with the natural grace of a gannet swallowing a herring.

I very nearly shat myself.
( SpankyHanky, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 23:28, 3 replies)

Pubs...
I don't drink, pubs smell of drunk pensioners and farts
( SkUG >_O i got a couple of stitches in my eyeball... ow, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 23:11, 1 reply)

A dyslexic friend of mine walked into a pud.
At the time I thought it was funny. Maybe you had to be there.
( GarbageFan didn't know what to have as a board sig on, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 22:37, Reply)

Local music scene
I used to half-heartedly follow the music scene in Reading (I am a friend of the "More Man" if it means anything to anyone). One night I was persuaded to go to one of the local bars for a music night so I put on my denim jacket with the Rush logo on the back and tagged along. Paid my money to get in and it's punk night. Really crappy aggressive punk night. And here's me in my denim 1980s rock gear. Gulp.

Anyway, I go to hide in the back bar, mainly to get away from the awful music. All they have on is cans of special brew. Warm. Crap.

So I end up sitting in the corridor nursing a warm half-can of trampfuel, when this enormous punk guy leans over me and growls "Hey, mate."#

I clench my bowels and look up, taking in the endless rows of eyelets in his DMs, his bondage jeans, tattoos and piercings, and his enormous cockatoo hairstyle. I'm just waiting to die - and for the record there are atheists in foxholes - and he says:

"Cheer up."

I cheered up very fast indeed. Avoiding impending certain doom does that to you. Plus, I didn't want to disappoint him.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 21:55, 2 replies)

So there I was
drinking at the counter, and munching on a few nibbles when I thought I heard a woman's voice say:
"Hey there, handsome."
I looked around to find the source, but it was just me and the barman. I resumed my pint, but there it was again:
"Oh my, what a nice suit!"
I went back to my pint, but as it was my third I needed desperately to relieve myself. As I stood, emptying the contents of my bladder into the urinal I heard a loud, gruff voice proclaim:
"Oy, ya cunt! Ya wanna take this outside?"
When I returned to the bar I asked the bartender if anyone had heard anything strange in his pub, to which he replied:
"Ah, yes. You see the nuts are complimentary, but the toilet's out of order."

Sorry if it's already bindun.
(flipflap, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 21:46, 1 reply)

The first of many, but Oh God was I scared.
Our tale begins a long long time ago in a country far far away (Well, Stranraer). As impressionable kids, we'd rented a static caravan on the coast, and 6 of us piled up there in mini Metro type things, poor cars weighed down to the hubs with crates of beer.

The night after we arrived, we decided to have a look at the local pub. THE local pub. Bearing in mind this place was a little bit ... 'backwater'. It seemed to be full of biker types. Lots of extremely hairy ginger men with leather jackets and tattoos. And lots of extremely hairy ginger women with leather jackets and tattoos. As we entered (picture six, scruffy studenty-types shuffling in nervously) they all turned as one, with barely disguised contempt. The pub fell silent, but fortunately, the barman was friendly enough, and his cry of 'Ach! Newcomers! what'll it be sassenachs?' seemed to calm them down a bit.

Anyway. To cut this long story short (far too late), they had karaoke. Yes. I know. Karaoke. This consisted of another hairy biker man with a CD player, and some microphones. The karaoke itself seemed to consist of Ginger Hairy Shouting to 'Ace Of Spades'. Over and Over.

Then the shout over the mike 'And now, the wee visitors are gonnae give us a song'. Oh God. What? We all turned to look at Phil. The one member of our party who seemed to have no fear, and no social graces. While we'd been skulking at the end of the bar quietly, Phil had nipped off and requested a song.

As the pub volume dropped again, we all padded nervously up to the mics, whispering to Phil 'What have you done, you shit' whilst he grinned so hard it had to hurt. We took a mike each, and the opening piano of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' started out.

Oh Jesus. Rock Opera in front of Scotlands answer to the Hells Angels. Fuck it. Not backing down, we'll never reach the door. FUCK IT. 'Mamaaaa, just killed a man'...

I had my eyes shut tightly for the first few bars, hoping that I could just deny this was happening, and it'd hurt less when the first bottle hit. And then it started. Quietly. I un-clenched a bit. What the hell? un-clenched more. Shit, they are! eyes open.

Well fuck me, if there's not a bunch of twenty-stone psychopaths with Motorhead tattoos singing along to 70's glam rock. 3 of them in the front joined us to do improvised air-guitar for the Brian May bits... those nearest the bar are doing the high parts, those closer doing the low bits, big hairy blokes are flooding forward, their arms round our shoulders, bellowing out a camp classic opera like their lives depended on it.

7 minutes later, and all the strength had disappeared from my body. We were all sweating like Gary Glitter at Heathrow, and I have never needed a pint more than that in my life.

We didn't buy a single drink for the rest of the night. When we finally left at about 3am, we hugged everyone in there, and were invited back the next year. We were taken up to the campsite on the back of 6 Harleys (or similar) still in a state of shock.

I've never forgotten that pub, and I never well.

And never forgotten that bikers like Queen.

No apologies for length, I'm still shaking at the memory.
(ArfurDaley Must try harder., Sat 7 Feb 2009, 20:55, 2 replies)

I used to work at a nighclub in Hull city center
when I was a young 'un.
It was Christmas Eve of 1991, and the female staff were dressed up in sexy female Santa outfits, complete with obligatory fishnet stockings and heels, and the male staff were wearing dresses.

15 minutes into my shift, and it's already 4 deep at the bar. One chap asks for 4 pints of lager and as I'm carrying the glasses to the tap, I trip and fall much to the amusement of the entire bar.

"Ah fuck" says I, "I've hurt my knee, it's bleeding" and figure I'll deal with it later.
As I'm pouring the first pint, the lad I'm serving politely tells me I'm bleeding into his drink. I am confused by this point, as I hurt my knee. So I take a look at my hand and sure enough there's blood streaming out the end of my finger. Uh oh.

A quick trip to the toilets and to get a plaster, I realise that I've chopped the end of my finger off. Crap. So my supervisor sends me to hospital to have it stitched back on.

While at the hospital, I was seen to first because a) of my outfit and b) the rest of the injured were drunken lads.
While I was waiting to get stitched up, a little lad was in with his mum after he'd falled downstairs and cut his eye open looking for Santa. Little lad got all excited and was going "Mummy, it's Mrs. Santa, it's Mrs. Santa!!!"

After telling him that Rudolph bit off my finger while I was feeding him a carrot, I spent the next two hours regaling him with tales of Santa's workshop and the elves. His mum was dead chuffed.

I went back to work when I was stitched up, they wouldn't let me get back behind the bar and so I spent the rest of my shift getting drunk for free and being paid for it! :D Result!
( Batshitmentalist is sane for once, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 20:44, Reply)

Face Plant
Some years back, I had a friend who was a dedicated drinker (as was I). He was wandering back from the bar with four pints (a feat I've still not mastered, I can only carry three), when he tripped over.

He managed to save the pints with narry a drop spilt. By letting his head pass between his arms and hit the floor first. Legend.
(Damien_The_Unbeliever, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 20:10, 2 replies)

then there's the time...
that the dyslexic guy walked into a bra.

sorry
(Handel blah blah blah, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 19:26, Reply)

I
spent a year living in Buenos Aires and used to go to a British / Irish style pub called Bullers in Recoleta. Fairly nice place during the day, with some proper beer rather than the utterly foul yet ubiqitous Quilmes lager that most bars in Argentina serve.

At night though, the place changed.

I went there one night with two Argentine girls, three Americans, and another Britisher. When we got there and started on our drinks, one of the Argentine girls reveled she was pregnant.

At the time she was drinking a triple rum and coke and had just stubbed her fifth Gaulois out and was sparking up a sixth.

"But Ana Maria*," said one of the Americans, "surely you shouldn't be drinking or smoking if you're pregnant"
"Nah," said Ana Maria, "I've got the abortion booked for next week so it doesn't matter."

Well, after that things seemed to go downhill. A group of Mexicans came in to watch their local team versus Velez Sarsfield (I think it was the Pumas). Somehow I ended up smoking cigars with them, getting more and more drunk on Beer and Tequila. I believe that I also was wearing a large sombrero at one point. Anyhoo, Cecilia* (the other Argentine girl) drags me away and tells me to drink this 'special' drink.

Cecilia* was, it has to be said, stunning. Especially in the very figure hugging top she was wearing that night. I had had something of a crush on her for some time and the desire to bump uglies with her overcame my natural paranoia and I downed the drink.

Why should I have been paranoid? Cecilia* was a great fan of some backstreet Argentine made version of Ketamine... illegally made horse tranquiliser more or less. She'd been trying to get me to do it for ages and so far I'd resisted. She had 'impishly' dosed the drink she gave me with a fair amount of the stuff and then oozed over, all pouting lips and heaving chest and appealed to my sex drive to drink it.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. I remember trying to stop the world spinning by lying under a table holding on to the legs, whilst Ana Maria* dropped Gaulois ash all over me and knocked back vodka. Spattered snapshots of the night appear, such as bursting into the toilet and discovering one of the Mexican men, dressed in a business suit and a 'comedy' sombrero, getting a blowjob off one of the Americans; attempting to chat up an Italian lady at the bar and slurring and dribbling so badly that she thought I was having a stroke; being helped outside by Cecilia* and one of the Americans, where they, for some unknown reason, put me astride a large plastic bull that stood outside the steak restaurant next door, and then had to spend half an hour arguing with the shotgun toting policeman who wanted to arrest me. At this point I was sat on the ground, head in hands, trying not to vomit. I don't remember much after that, other than Cecilia* taking me back to her apartment as I was incapable of going further and putting me to sleep on the kitchen floor.

I miss Argentina.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 18:41, 6 replies)

Wolf man and barry
So, picture this, the Belsize in Belsize Park (now a fucking asianfusion restaurant) one summer's afternoon, all the regulars have been in afternoon drinking, yours truly is behind the bar, sneaking the odd G+T. Various regulars ahve been and gone and just left are Wolf (very monied posh jewish fella) and Bazza (very pikey scrote from Kilburn) So these two are having a beer and I'm thinking: this isn't gonna go well. Wolf invites me into the loos for a cheeky livener, and gives Bazza a pathetic little line too. W0lf decides he's gonna need some weed later to go to sleep when he goes back to his girlfriend, so Bazza volunteers to get a cab to Kilburn and pick some up for him. the weed arrives and bazza asks Wolf for £50, 30 for the green and £20 for the cab, (the cab should have been £15. Wolf takes umbrage at this cost and refuses to pay him anything at all. Bazza decides to headbutt Wolf (Wolf is 6' tall and 4' wide, bazza is a little weasily scrote. Wolf doesn't even flinch from the butt, but blood starts trickling down his nose. Wolf picks up his bar stool and throws it at bazza, bazza picks up somebody's Corona and smashes the bottle and starts wavin it around. Yours truly has to stand in front of the mania and stop him glassing Wolf. Wolf gives me his charlie and weed to hold coz he's called the rozzers. so I stick it in the safe (the worst place to keep naughties on reflection) rozzers turn up, do fuck all and go. I glady bar Bazza for ever for breaking a bottle, and advise Wolf not to come in for a few weeks. They both thankfully agree and leave me to have another large gin.
(Alcacino, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 18:31, 2 replies)

i like
shitting on the floor in the toilets and covering it in loads of paper towels so someone treads in it. its great.
(Errin C, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 17:26, 6 replies)