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)

You'd be surprised
what pubs full of random people would like.

Although, Queen, ELO, and The Monkees are all good bets.
( The Light in Chains don't touch the Pope's boner, Sat 7 Feb 2009, 23:39, closed)

*click*
This story is sweet. I remember working at my local newsagency and a swarm of big, burly, leathered-up bikies walked in. They were the politest customers, asking how we were and telling us to have a nice day as they bought the paper. Absolutely lovely. Then they hopped on their Harleys and zoomed off. Things like that make me smile.
(TheChicken Five hundred thousand points from Gryffindor, Sun 8 Feb 2009, 9:05, closed)