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The landlord's boot
I worked in a pub in Dover many years ago. If for some mad reason you've ever been tempted to hang about in Dover long enough to visit one you'll know they're all pretty grim, but this one was away from the town centre and really quite nice.

The landlord was an overweight gruff old oaf with high blood pressure and gout. Despite his apparent health problems he was a force to be reckoned with; a claw hammer behind the bar was just one of a number of potential weapons kept tucked away in case of trouble. He lived above the pub with his wife and daughter. The daughter would have been about 13 at the time but she was built like a brick privy and looked like a shaved Giant Haystacks.

One night an old mate of the landlord's came in and there was a warm reunion as the two old chums who hadn't seen each other for over twenty years got slowly sloshed and recounted old navy tales.

Unseen, landlord's daughter had come down and was walking through the bar. Old chum spies her and exclaims to the whole pub: "Fuck me! Look at the state of her!"

Landlord looks to see who he's referring to, calmly picks up a nearby charity collection box made out of a HOUSE BRICK and smashes it over his mate's head. Coins and fragments of brick spill down over his head as he crumbles to the floor. Landlord puts out his cigarette, finishes his drink and gets up to leave. "He's barred" he tells us, stepping over the unconscious form.
(Mon 9th Feb 2009, 13:56, More)