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)

So if not exactly in Brighton?
Where was it? Then I can avoid it.
(JohabMorelli is spenging merrily away, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 10:52, closed)