The New Regime Part Two

They have moved the fucking smoking-table! They have moved the fucking smoking-table ten feet to the right into an alcove.
And apparently you are no longer allowed to sit at the bar!!!!!!
Captain Pugwash, I don't think I like the cut of your jib Sir.

Landladies Leaving "DO" Part Two

I was saving part two, for her last ever night in residence. But as she had shut the-worst-pub because it had run out of beer! It is an unfinished tenancy!

The New Regime. Part One

For various reasons I only had twenty minutes in which to down a pint of premium lager and sample the-worst-pub in its new guise.

As I entered I noticed that it was spotlessly clean. All the ashtrays were empty, and just when I thought it was all going too well, I saw that there were no bar staff behind the bar. The-Builder-Who-Wants-To-Be-An-Actor was waving a tenner around with no particular urgency. Panic Attack, My Friend, Liam and Wilson were huddled together at the corner of the bar. I heard My Friend say to Liam, "Just wait 'till he hears how much it is!" I had twenty minutes to get served, drink a pint, go to Tesco-Metro and get home to my pre-menstrual wife. I didn't have time for bar-room banter. I was on a mission.

I ignored The-Bulider-Who-Wants-To-Be-An-Actor and sidestepped him to catch a member of the bar-staff down 'Shirkers Alley.' My heart sang; in front of me were seven members of staff all in new T-shirts and raring to go. I smiled. They all smiled back. I smiled again while counting their number with my nodding head. They smiled back. "They can't serve you, they don't know how to use the till," said a porcine face in a badly fitting sports jacket. I smiled at him. He didn't smile back. This was my first meeting with Captain Pugwash.
I chased the barman who did know how to use the till back to his till when I had been served. "Two pound fucking seventy!" The lads laughed. MyFriend said, "I told you."

It Can't Get anyworse!!

Walt and I approached the worst pub tonight and found the doors locked. I knocked upon the locked doors and the barman with the treble clef tattoo came to the door and mouthed "we are closed."
"Why" I shouted.
"We have run out of beer" he mouthed with a straight face.
I laughed, Walt laughed and the barman with the treble clef tattoo laughed (silently I would imagine) from the other side of the locked double door.
We went to the-best-pub and had a great night.

Landladies leaving "Do" Part One

Now, at the ripe old age of forty one and having spent twenty four of those years as a regular of various pubs, I know that the farewell to a publican is always a sad occasion. Whether it is you or they who are moving on, it is an emotional experience.
Tonight it is our landladies leaving "Do".
Last night before I left, Wilson told me not to have any tea before I came out as all the regulars were invited to the private party with a buffet that was being held in the front bar. As I entered the-worst-pub tonight, I saw that the area was indeed cordoned off and festooned with balloons.
I stood at the corner of the bar watching Sky Tv and ignoring Wallace, Albert Camus and Panic Attack. Albert Camus shouted over, " you're quiet tonight o'malley" I told him that I was. He walked around to me and held me in a bear hug and said, "Then I hold you, tell you I love you and we will speak tomorrow." You lovely, crazy Macadonian!

After my first pint I felt good enough to start to talk and approached the-smoking-table. It was full. I stood behind Derry-Man and moved him and his chair to the right. I was showing off. If anybody else had done that there would have been murder.
Cool-Hand to my left, then George, then Steelback, Steelbacks friends girlfriend, Steelbacks friend and Wilson.
For fucks sake, Steelbacks friends girlfriend had a body made for sin. And did she have to keep dropping her lighter and picking it up so that her jeans dropped and her top rose and we were left with a view of the sexiest lacy g-string I have seen for an age. And did she have to wear a too tight top with a bra that must have been two sizes too small underneith.

Sex Tourists Revealed

I haven’t been entirely honest. A terrible admission I know, but, better late than never.
I have received some correspondence regarding the sex-tourists who drink in the-worst-pub. Did I keep them anonymous deliberately and what are my thoughts on the matter? Well Kevin from PA, wherever that is . . .I thought it was someone who made your coffee and bought flowers for your wife when you were busy playing golf . . .I wasn’t aware that I had not revealed their identity. But when I look back to my last post, I realised that you had a valid point.
Alright, here we go, Wilson and Liam are the sex-tourists. But as sex-tourists go, I am sure that they are very respectful and generous sex-tourists.

Santa's little helpers

Sorry for the delay; I blame my continuing boozing and the resultant feeling of self-loathing that inhabits every waking sober thought of every drinker for my absence. The highlights have been: Cool-Hand and George have struck up a very odd relationship. Cool-Hand is a great groomer of thoughts and situations. In-fact, Cool-Hand is a great groomer of people. And if George isn’t careful he is going to have to swallow hard to pay off all those free drinks. Wilson and Liam’s friendship gets deeper and deeper. The sex tourists are moaning in their beer that they are not going to Thailand for Christmas. As Sex Tourist one said, “It won’t seem like Christmas without one of Santa’s little helpers sitting on my face for less than the price of a pint.”

The Racist

As I drove home from Oxfordshire, the night sky was illuminated by all those good people teaching their young that it is right and proper to burn a Papist on top of a bonfire and celebrate his death with fireworks. And indeed, I expected some sort of ritualistic firework show of support as I entered the-worst-pub on the eve of my climb onto the wagon. But, instead of the two lines of ruddy-faced drinkers cheering me up the red carpet towards my period of sobriety. It was empty. The smoking-table regulars were slavering over the new barmaid, who was off-duty, sitting at the table underneath sky TV. After a couple of sips, O'Donnell joined me and we were well. Then George approached the table talking of my beloved boys. This was just his prawn cocktail before he got onto the medium steak of his racism and then the black forest gateaux of his bad-breathed hatred. I left my beer!

Late drink

Great night out with Walt down the good pub. Had to pass the door of the-worse-pub on the way home and popped in to play on the top shelf. My glorious boys couldn't score a goal. Wilson was laughing and sweating. And for the first time in five years and six months . . . I got my first late drink

Silly Soapy

While sitting at my desk this morning, a bright yellow Volkswagen decorated with personified blueberries and bearing the legend . . .SILLY SOAPY, LADY CLOWN . . .parked outside my window. A very glamorous and decidedly unsilly woman continued to bend over in front of me and pluck her child out of the back seat. Since when did clowns, male or female, have a fantastic ass and great legs? The world of slap-stick has finally gone mad.
I was meant to be on the wagon today. I think I will wait until the first of November
.A year ago today, we acquired a lovely five month old bitch from the dog rescue centre. One of my main selling points to my wife was that I would take her to training classes as soon as possible. Tonight was our first class. It was exhausting. Arrived home two hours later had a quick cup of tea and off down the-worst-pub. It was empty apart from O’Donnell, John and Tony Blackburn at the smoking-table and about twenty staff all sipping drinks very slowly. Tony Blackburn had had a few and, as ever, was the expert on every subject that he or the other two brought up. I was stone cold sober at half past nine when the land-lady, who has three weeks left in the job, told us that last orders would be at nine forty due to a staff meeting! “We are all going to have a chat then a lot of drinks.” Who is this pub meant to be open for???
On a plus side . . . I was worrying that I only had the foreshortened evening ahead and tomorrow night until I am on the wagon when my mobile vibrated in my pocket. It was Walt, my saviour; did I fancy a drink in the good-pub on Wednesday night? So, the wagon on Thursday it is, indeed. And that’s the way it is.

Her PVC Skirt

Far too hung-over to go to Mass. Waved my wife and kids off on their way to salvation while I tried to find a position for my aching head. A hot bath didn’t work. A fry-up didn’t work. So I thought I would try the going-back-to-bed-for-half-an-hour trick. Just as I was drifting off to sleep I remembered I had promised my family a roast-dinner. So, twenty minutes later I was having a particularly unpleasant experience in Morrison’s supermarket. Why don’t people shop in the week? Why don’t fat people have their very own fat shops with extra wide aisles? Why didn’t three spotty little fuck-wits know where the nut roast was? And why wasn’t the ten items or less checkout open? Arrived back home a very bad-tempered, sweaty father.
I knew there was only one cure. So, one hour later, after not much persuasion, we were all sitting in the-worst-pub.They stayed with me for two pints, which improved my mood and cured my hangover. After they left me (apparently, I had bought a chicken that was far too big and would take three days to cook) I squeezed in between Wallace and Liam at the smoking-table. Panic Attack, Ringo and Wilson were also there. As they were all engrossed in the Leicester v Cardiff rugby match on the screen there wasn’t much conversation, apart from some rather well informed and acute observations on the new bar-maids tight pvc skirt and the plunging neck line of her blouse. Anyway, two more drinks later, Wilson and Liam were on such good form that I laughed so instantaneously that I sprayed beer all over the floor.
The roast dinner was a success and for the first time in a long time I was in bed at eight o clock.

Celtic Darkness

I wish I could say that it caught me by surprise, I wish I could say that she walked in through the bathroom window like a dark unexpected guest, I wish I could say that I was driving well within the limits on a slow and easy motorway and didn't see the HGV cross the carriageway before it snuffed out all that was well and good within my ford mondeo. Walt has moaned at me for years. "Oh please don't start moaning already . . .we're still in August." But as soon as we pass the sun in the third month of June, the inevitable nightmare is drawing in. And tonight, finally, the clocks go back. Of-course we don't technically enter the Celtic period of darkness until Halloween has been and gone. But, as ever, and as ever since I reached the age of reason, I haven't got a fucking clue how I will get through the next eight weeks. I heard a lyric today which I think went something like this . . .pray for the people inside your head, for they will be there when you are dead. . . Beautiful. November is the month of souls.

DRIP-FED BETRAYAL

I'm not a great fan of theatrical asides . . .but . . . thank you for your emails, for there have been many. No, I haven't died, I have been away. Okay, not as long as all that, but sometimes the dark clouds of an unwritten sub-plot take away the will to be. A gradual, yet persistant, drip-fed betrayal, can, when the dose is becoming toxic, make a man lose self-belief and the abilty to free his expression. Well, I wish I could free my expression tonight, but my heart is heavy and it all seems slightly static.
Anyway, walked into the-worst-pub and once again had to traverse the north face of the bar to track down a member of the bar staff. Walked up to the smoking-table and joined Wilson, Talk-a-lot, Cool Hand, Cool Hands mate and the guy who drinks at lunch time. Talk-a-lot is telling all who will listen of the departure of his wife and kids and dear God it is the saddest tale there is to tell.
When I was away I was astounded that a group of random drinking parters from the worst pub in the fecking world were with me to the centre of the centre of me. As a stranger reminded me . . .Who wrote to me here . .Your drinking partners are friends. . . Real friends.

Eastern Rite Mystic

Walked into a busy worst-pub to find the bar without any barstaff behind it again. i walked to the left hand side of the bar hoping to spy someone on the vertical but it was still empty. I then went down to the wash-up area and found northernbeardytwats ex girlfriend hiding doing nothing. And do you know something . . .she was really pissed off that I'd come to find her. I joined Wilson at the smoking-table, who was drunk and cuddly and lovely talking of his weekend away. Then, just after he left, Albert Camus slammed his whisky upon the table and said " we must talk." oh, and we talked, we talked like only people who are free from restraint through the love of God can talk. Eastern Rite to Western Rite, sharing the mystical qaulities of our churches, the mystical qualities of being a sinner and the mystical qualities of being alive we talked and we talked and we talked. Praise be to the Father and peace to His people on earth. To find a pub prophet will always make my heart sing.

Multi-Layer Marketing

I was saved today. I was an inch away from a life in multi-layer-marketing. I was going to be the "Betterclean" man, dropping catalogues through letterboxes, then picking them back up again, laden with orders two days later. My wife said I only wanted to do it because I thought the doors were going to be opened by a selection of 'readers-wives' in fluffy high-heels and see-through lingerie. I obviously lied and denied that the thought had ever entered my head. "Do you want to come in while I fill out my order? Oh, you poor Betterclean man, you're soaking! Why don't you take your clothes off and sit by the fire . . .etc etc". Anyway, I'm driving to Oxford on saturday to give two hundred catalogues back to my upliner along with the chance of seeing Nora from Northampton's stocking-tops through her flimsy lace lingerie. Such is life.

Two Pints

I joined Wallace and Albert Camus at the smoking-table. We were the only punters in the pub. They were on their seventh hour of drinking, and that, coupled with their own individual heavy accents meant that I spent two pints worth just nodding and smiling a lot in their general direction.

Are Greg and Martin gay?

The-worst-pub is in the most critical downward spiral I have seen her go through since I first walked through the doors and had the stand-off with that awful horsey barmaid who wouldn't say "please" and I wouldn't hand over my money until she did, all those years ago.
Some night's there really aren't many more drinkers than the ones I mention. I suppose Greg and Martin are always in (Liam thinks that they are gay beacause they go fishing together!!!) but they tend to stay on their own. There is a clique of ex-barstaff who sit over the other side of the room and keep themselves to themselves.
It is always cold and the food complaints are reaching comical proportions.
And somebody is going to buy it.

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!!!