The Irish Post

After another superstitious half-an-hours slow sup of a Stella and a browse through the Irish Post down the club, I entered the-worst-pub to find her in an odd mood.Cool Hand was on his mobile underneath sky television. As my boys were about to kick off, I squeezed in next to a delightfully fine-fettled Wilson at the smoking-table. I placed my paper on the empty chair with it's back to the TV screen. While talking with Wilson, I was suddenly aware that I must have put my paper on Cool hand's stool as he lifted it up and dropped it on the floor in a fit of drunken, queeny pique. I picked it up and placed it on the empty table behind me without saying a word. I stood watching the eleven men I love with my back to the smoking-table. After a few minutes I was aware that Panic Attack was laughing not unlike a young girl at her first party. I turned around to discover that the source of his merriment was my copy of the Irish Post. Embarrassed faces turned away as he ridiculed each and every legitimate headline. What on earth was all that about?

Lawrence of Alabia

There must be something deep within my gene pool that makes my love of walking in the rain seem sane. Me and my dog walked twice around the park with a fine mist falling upon our shoulders until her spaniel eyes pleaded with me to take her home. A few years ago I went to see a crappy new play in stratford, where the lights were up on the audience, which made it difficult to sleep. I had almost mastered keeping my eyes open yet not watching the pile of bile in front of me when I heard the line . . . " He'd shag the crack-of-dawn if it hair around it." I laughed so much I almost fell off my chair. Then tonight, while trying to do something technical on this machine, I heard from the television behind me . . . " Oh,it's got a great porn channel! Have you ever seen 'Lawrence of A Labia?' Very funny the writer of 'Life Begins.'

Northern Beardy Twat is a Twat

Northern Beardy Twat's girlfriend looked slightly more suicidal than usual as she pulled my pint. I asked her if she was alright. She told me that as of yesterday at eleven o'clock she was officially single. I told her that Northern Beardy Twat was a twat. She told me she loved him and her eyes filled with tears as she ran off to the washing-up room leaving my pint stranded behind the bar. But he is a twat!!!

The Smoking-Table Coup

After musing on the worried mutterings of the sex tourists from the day before, I realised that we had our very own bloodless coup taking place in the-worst-pub. For the last three night's running, Wallace and Birdman have been sipping at the prized smoking-table while the lads have had to sit and drink at the eating tables. For years Birdman and Wallace have lived in exile drinking at the shelf opposite the jukebox. Drinkers without a spiritual home, living in the shadows on the edge of the world. But there they now are, as bold as brass, the two of them drinking at the smoking-table. I can only assume that this coup has been months in the planning and has been executed with precision and daring. They must take it in turns to get to the-worst-pub early and plant a beery standard upon the smoking-table. Let us say, for instance that it is Wallace's shift - he orders his pint of best and places it on the empty smoking-table sitting himself upon the thrown, which is the barstool directly facing sky television. Then, let us imagine, Liam walks in, buys his pint of Fosters and turns around to find Wallace smiling in a come-hither way from the smoking-table. As Liam would rather eat his own left testicle than drink with Wallace, he is left with no other option other than sitting down at the eating tables under the tv screen. And drinker by entering drinker, this pattern continues until the eating tables are full and only Birdman has joined Wallace at the smoking-table where they drink alone, as usual.

Sex-Tourists

Our local sex tourists were wondering whether they should cancel their annual pilgramage to Thailand after recent events there. I assured them that any new regime would not want to repel an army of middle-aged europeans armed with plenty of cash and suitcases stashed full of condoms and viagra. I think I put their minds at rest.

Wilson

Since the fateful day when England went out of the World Cup and the police had to storm the-worst-pub, spraying mace like fun-foam into the faces of saxon-shirted rioters; the pub has changed its complection somewhat. It is now generally more sedate and even more souless than before. The group of Manchester United fans who have never been to Manchester have flown back to the pub from which they migrated after a mass barring. Therefore, tonight, the-worst-pub was empty apart from Wilson, Liam, My Friend, Panic Attack and myself drinking around the-smoking-table. Wilson was showing us his long list of presription drugs which he has to take to keep him being Wilson. Panic Attack asked him if he was allowed to drink whilst on the medication. "Oh yes," replied Wilson, "the Doc said it's fine to have a couple of pints a night." "Wison!" said Panic Attack, putting his hand upon his left shoulder, "you're on your eighth pint!" Wilson looked defiantly at Panic Attack. "And who do you think you are? The fucking drink police?"

Pub For Sale

The-worst-pub is up for sale! The word at the bar is that all the staff will be kept on apart from the Landlady. I'm not surprised - I've only seen her eighteen times in five years and three of those were in the Post Office.

Forgiveness

It had been a beautiful day, but as I walked towards the worst pub, storm clouds were moving in from the west and rain was starting to fall. I stood on my own at the smoking-table watching the light fade over the park. Why doesn’t the ability to forgive take away the hurt?

Do you think that I'm fat?

The Bitterest Pill took an age before she moved her hand-bag out of the way, so that there was room for me to stake my claim to a piece of the smoking-table on a very quiet Sunday night. She was pissed, loud, obnoxious and poisonous. My Friend had come out with her to keep her company because he’s a good guy. Clarence was at the table and so was Liam. The Bitterest pill dominated my three pints. “Do you think I’m fat?” she asked us. “No” we said, not being entirely truthful. “Well,” she continued, her shrill voice rising in volume. “Look at that fat mess of a woman over there.” None of us turned to look as it was painfully possible that the woman she was talking about could hear what she was saying. “I mean, just look at the size of her, if she can get a boyfriend, why can’t I?” Now, I am not a relate councilor or a psychologist but it may have something to do with the stream of mean-spirited, small-minded, racist, man-hating bigotry that spews out of her mouth. None of us said anything. I turned my back and watched the Spanish football on Sky.

Regan and Carter

It was a proper top draw job on the smoking table tonight. I sandwiched myself between Regan to my right, Cool Hand to my left, The Voice of Reason was opposite and Carter was to Regan’s right. And they were all at the top of their game. As an appreciative audience member I laughed and laughed and I laughed. Regan, who hardly shows in the pub is a joy to behold. We were talking about . . . no, let me make this clear, Regan was talking about the glory of hirsute women, saying that after years of wanting less hair on a woman, he had now gone to the other extreme of wanting as much as possible. I told him my horror stories of the hairy woman I had lived with for five years and he wanted to know if I had any Polaroid’s? Then Carter, Regan’s partner told us this . . .
“It was a big job, I mean national job, they didn’t come much bigger than this. We had been waiting to move for a two weeks and nothing had happened and we had got bored. My mobile goes . . .’ We have tried calling Regan, his phone is fucked . . .pick him up . . .the mission is on, I repeat it is a go.’ So I called him on his personal . . .”It’s a go” I told him. “I can’t” he said, “I’m shaving.” “Okay, I’ll be outside your door in two minutes.” “No,” said Regan, “I don’t think that you understand . . .I am shaving somebody else!”

Boob Job

Once again, the smoking-table had been hijacked. Wallace was standing on his own at the bar and smiling towards me. I joined him, keeping the curve of the bar between us. We didn't say much as I kept my eyes on the television screen in front of me. The crowd on the smoking-table were asking after someones boob-job! I was in such an awkward position, that to have turned and looked would have made it obvious that I had been listening to their conversation. Wallace on the other hand, had no such visual impediment. His eyes were on stalks, focusing on a point over my right shoulder that I could only wonder about.
The moment passed and we chatted of his Uncle when he was a boy. He was mid-sentence, when he suddenly blurted "so, you had a boob job?" We were joined by one of the kitchen workers, sipping her diet-coke through a straw and pouting. "Yes, I'm now a 36dd" she said. To avoid any confusion, I looked her straight in the eye and said "I am now going to look at your breasts." I lowered my eyes from hers towards her ample bosom that was now being thrust towards me. And do you know all I could say? . . ."Oh very good, well done, yes, very good. "

Northern Beardy Twat

I was in the first few strides of my journey to the worst pub when I saw Martha desperately trying to ignore me on the other side of the street. Dear God forgive me, but I really wouldn't piss on her if she was on fire. . . .
with your half-baked knowledge,
from your half-read books,
with your performers ego,
but without the required looks...
Waited six minutes to be served my first drink. Northern beardy twat wasn't working but drinking and walked past me wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend "cheeky." Trust me son you ain't cheeky.
The smoking-table had been robbed so I perched myself at the apex of the bend of the bar. Wallace was near but wasn't in the mood for a chat. Neither was I.

Dreaming of Wallace

There had been a disporia away from the smoking-table. Instead, it had been claimed by Albert Camus, Birdman and Wallace. I was deceiding whether to plant my pint upon the bar and have a brief two minute, three-foot conversation with the smoking-table and then disappear into my own world, when Wallace asked after my health. Now, that would not have been unusual, but I had dreamed of Wallace the night before . . .We were going on holiday together and I had lost him in the biggest Heathrow in the world . . . The last image I have before I awoke, was of myself screaming down empty terminal passageways "WALLACE . . .WALLACE?" So, because of that, I joined the smoking-table and told them of my dream. Wallace was delighted that he had surfaced in anybodies dream, Albert Camus who doesn't speak great english nodded a lot and Birdman held his lips shut with his fingers like a bulldog clip. After all the usual dreamtalk and sleepwalking talk that a group of drinkers can engage in, Birdman finally spoke: "We're different, you and me! 'Cos if I'd had a dream about anybody in here, I wouldn't have said a word." The table went silent. "Trust me Birdman," I replied, "if I had dreamt that I of buggered Wallace senseless , I would have kept my mouth shut too."