Pubs
Jeccy writes, "I've seen people having four-somes, fights involving spastics and genuine retarded people doing karaoke, all thanks to the invention of the common pub."
What's happened in your local then?
( , Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:55)
Jeccy writes, "I've seen people having four-somes, fights involving spastics and genuine retarded people doing karaoke, all thanks to the invention of the common pub."
What's happened in your local then?
( , Thu 5 Feb 2009, 20:55)
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Look! Underwear!
Yes, I have had a profile for that long and no, I haven't said much. I'm the shy type, you see. Be gentle.
I once worked cash in hand in a pub that had the hardest reputation in town. It was aces - full of drunks, bikers, drunk bikers in ballgowns, dogs on strings - all the fun of the early nineties.
Like every town pub with a reputation it had a resident nutter or five. Terry the potman, for example, was one hundred and twelvety years old; a four-foot nothing ex-boxer who would think nothing of squaring up and punching large men full in the throat a propos of nothing.
But my story doesn't concern Terry. No, this tale relates the oddity of someone I'll refer to as "Michard Rottie" on order to save his reputation in whichever institution is currently reaping the benefits of his myriad charms.
Michard Rottie was an affable loon, given to sneaking up to the bar on hands and knees on Friday nights, all the better to pop up like a demented sock puppet in a grubby t-shirt and bellow "I love you!!" at the barmaid he fancied. Hmm. Yup. Good one.
He wasn't a man to take lightly though. Oh, no.
The people who lived in the third floor flat next to his were in the habit of making too much noise late at night. This angered our lunatic friend and after weeks of skirmishing in the lobby and shouting swears through the party wall, Michard finally snapped. Howling with inarticulate rage, he took the only sensible course of action open to him given such trying circumstances.
Which would explain why, when the police arrived, they found our dubious hero in the car park, at the business end of a very long extension lead snaking from his third floor window. Drilling holes in his neighbours car. Wearing only his pants.
They don't make 'em like that any more. I remember when this was all fields.
Etc.
Length? Your mum loves it.
( , Tue 10 Feb 2009, 19:09, 1 reply)
Yes, I have had a profile for that long and no, I haven't said much. I'm the shy type, you see. Be gentle.
I once worked cash in hand in a pub that had the hardest reputation in town. It was aces - full of drunks, bikers, drunk bikers in ballgowns, dogs on strings - all the fun of the early nineties.
Like every town pub with a reputation it had a resident nutter or five. Terry the potman, for example, was one hundred and twelvety years old; a four-foot nothing ex-boxer who would think nothing of squaring up and punching large men full in the throat a propos of nothing.
But my story doesn't concern Terry. No, this tale relates the oddity of someone I'll refer to as "Michard Rottie" on order to save his reputation in whichever institution is currently reaping the benefits of his myriad charms.
Michard Rottie was an affable loon, given to sneaking up to the bar on hands and knees on Friday nights, all the better to pop up like a demented sock puppet in a grubby t-shirt and bellow "I love you!!" at the barmaid he fancied. Hmm. Yup. Good one.
He wasn't a man to take lightly though. Oh, no.
The people who lived in the third floor flat next to his were in the habit of making too much noise late at night. This angered our lunatic friend and after weeks of skirmishing in the lobby and shouting swears through the party wall, Michard finally snapped. Howling with inarticulate rage, he took the only sensible course of action open to him given such trying circumstances.
Which would explain why, when the police arrived, they found our dubious hero in the car park, at the business end of a very long extension lead snaking from his third floor window. Drilling holes in his neighbours car. Wearing only his pants.
They don't make 'em like that any more. I remember when this was all fields.
Etc.
Length? Your mum loves it.
( , Tue 10 Feb 2009, 19:09, 1 reply)
Ace
have a click !
Which town is this, this story is very Redditch.
( , Thu 12 Feb 2009, 16:35, closed)
have a click !
Which town is this, this story is very Redditch.
( , Thu 12 Feb 2009, 16:35, closed)
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