Shitty tramp
A couple of years ago the sweary one and I were in town, doing some shopping. I’m after a black suit for my graduation, and she’s after a nice new dress for said occasion. As often happens in these situations, we both find what we want pretty quickly and are faced with the familiar, age old dilemma – back home, or pub?

Pub wins. Every time.

So, we are firmly ensconced in the Strawberry, enjoying a foamy pint of Old Cuntbuster (or some similarly ludicrously-named real ale), and having a smoke, when this bloke rolls up. I use the term ‘bloke’ loosely – he was barely recognisable as human. “Hev ye gorra tab I can borra mate”? slurs the man-thing, to us (I never understood that particular phrase – if I give you my name and address are you going to return said fag in the post to me)?

At this point we both become aware of an almighty foul stench that has just assaulted our olfactory senses, and realise it’s coming from this random cigarette-bumming missing link. Desperate to be rid of him the sweary one replies, “Yeah, here” and thrusts a cancer stick in his general direction. It was on doing this that we noticed a bit more about him.

The guy had a beard that was obviously the result of several years’ growth. Within that beard was a carefully-cultivated mat of the most offensive looking vomit I have ever seen. His beard was like a micro-cosmos of undiscovered life forms – scientists would have had a field day. I could feel the bile rising slowly. However, the smell he had brought with him was becoming overpowering, and as he turned to stumble back towards the bar, we noticed what was an absolute tour-de-force of shit plastering the back of his jeans. From the inside. The guy had shit himself in what can only be described as a voluminous manner, probably more than once, but was obviously too pissed to notice and had ground this horrific life-form into his jeans through the simple act of sitting on a bar stool (‘scuse pun) and shifting his weight around occasionally in order to get comfy.

Gagging, we stayed and continued our pints, lighting up again several times to alleviate the smell. Nothing comes between us and a pint…
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Mon 31 Mar 2008, 17:31, 2 replies)

Strawberry eww!
Davros

that's a reason why we avoid the Strawberry - try the Newcastle Arms - also have stupidly named beer and a less smelly clientele!

Tx
(twiceydrinker hmmm is it pint time?, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 9:02, closed)

It was on the way back to the car
And we both hadn't been in for about 15 years.

Sometimes, nostalgia ain't all it's cracked up to be...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Tue 1 Apr 2008, 9:23, closed)