Cool Hand Puke

O'Malleys Bar isn't as much fun as I first thought; my dyslexic wife doesn't really get my jokes, it is hard to lean against the 'bar' when then ironing board is in the way and why are there two children, not only running in and out of the place, but also asking me questions which demand answers.

So because of this, I ventured out at eleven last Friday night. The-Worst-Pub was empty apart from Liam, Cool-Hand, George and Wilson. George has morphed into a decent human being! His hate filled shaven pate has been replaced with a cutie-tufty head of curly hair that seems to have softened much of his vitriolic outbursts. Cool-Hand was very drunk and seemed to be up to something rather dubious with an unsuspecting eighteen year old boy. Liam wasn't saying much and Wilson was sweating!

The-Worst-Pub is a beautiful building and the entrance has an art-deco porch which I have taken up as my smoking perch. It's not so bad to sip alone with your thoughts watching the cars and buses traveling east or west. For indeed, there is always something strangely beautiful to see neon lights against red-brick and the blur of headlights illuminating mini-skirted revelers on their way to wherever they may be revealing.