Pierced Nipples

I was idly flicking through an amateur porn site this afternoon where I stumbled upon
UK LISA STRIPS FOR YOU and strip she did indeed, slowly revealing another part of her flabby flesh. Each picture was accompanied by comments from her husband ie WHO WANTS TO SEE HER BRA? To which sad fuckwits then post a message saying YES. He then wrote WHO WANTS TO SEE HER PIERCED NIPPLES? To be truthfully honest I was listening to the afternoon play and not really taking much notice. When the picture arrived I almost dropped my cigarette. There were her breasts with silver dangly crucifixes hanging from her nipples. I am sure that her intent was good and wholesome but it did seem to miss the mark a little.

Snooker

Overheard from two subcontractors standing at the bar watching sky tv:

SC1: Why do poofs love snooker?
SC2: I didn’t know that they did.
SC1: I’m telling you, all the poofs I know love snooker.
SC2: I don’t know Gary. Why do poofs like snooker?
SC1: If I had known the fucking answer I wouldn’t have asked the question.

Smoking Ban

The-worst-pub has now been cleansed of almost every drinker that they wanted to get rid of. After one very messy Sunday night which was ridiculously understaffed, some smokers started lighting up in the back of the pub, having a couple of drags and taking themselves outside to finish it.
I took it one step further and stood at the table that was once the-smoking-table and smoked myself silly once more. Mick Collins and his girl thought this was hilarious and started doing the same. Unfortunately for them they were caught on the cctv and were issued with a life ban when they came in on Monday afternoon. Apparently, according to Liam, I was standing in the only blind spot of the pub!

Cool Hand was barred two nights before this for calling the Manager an Irish slut. But he only got three months as he came in to apologise the next morning.

I haven’t been excluded from a pub for twenty years, and looking back on my near escape, it would have been lovely to have an excuse to walk past the doors on my way to the-best-pub and never step inside again. But, I guess it will be down to my non-existent will power.

Anyway, tonight was very quiet and I was drinking with My Friend and Liam. My Friend said to Liam
“I bought eight legs of venison today for three hundred quid; do you think that is two deer?”
Liam replied, “Three hundred notes? Fucking hell, you’ve been ripped off mate.”
He didn’t get it. I tried the same joke on my wife when I got home, she didn’t get it either.

Foggy forgotten weekend

I started drinking at two o’clock on Friday afternoon. It started slowly. Then with the mystical curve when alcohol transubstantiates bread into time, suddenly it was Sunday night, sixty hours had gone missing and all I could remember was that I had missed Holy Mass. My family were still alive and after various telephone calls I found that the sky hadn’t fallen in upon chicken lickin.

Today had been the longest day to die whilst waiting for the sun to set and to find some sort of anonymity as I shuffled towards the-worst-pub. Wilson is tanned after his holiday, Liam is pleased to have him back but both are a little nervous about yesterday’s plane crash. Three pints of numbers and the day is turned around into a night that is full of promise.

I have just won two poker tournaments on the bounce and Miles is blowing his horn; you lovely lovely crazy man blow, scream down your reed and take me somewhere that seemed impossible when I awoke this morning.

The Flower Girl

For the last thirteen weeks, at eight twenty-seven in the morning, I have caught the Number One bus from the stop opposite the-worst-pub and travelled into town. Wendy with the Morrison’s badge, whose stomach is larger than her breasts, smiles at me occasionally and nods a good morning. I never sit down. I prefer to toss my small rucksack into the baggage hold, hold on to one of the vertical supports and stare out of the window onto the opening-up world of the shops outside; thus avoiding catching the eye of the able bodied born-again-Christian woman who sits in the disabled seat and pounces on the unaware with promises of salvation and a life everlasting.

Relieved at getting on the bus and knowing that now, only an act of God can prevent me from clocking in on time for yet another seven hours of unremitting boredom. We pass Tesco-metro, the church and then if I am lucky I find the thirty-something brunette bending over and arranging flowers in the buckets outside the florists. If the traffic lights are on red and the bus is in the optimum place in the queue, I can gaze, quite unnoticed by the fifty pairs of eyes behind me, onto the early morning soft focus erotica in front of me. With her back to the road, she bends forward from the waist, her legs perfectly straight as her shortish skirt rises ever upwards as she fluffs the bouquets in front of her. Then, when the bucket she is working on is finished, she turns her nimble fingers towards the next. Instead of standing up and taking a step and starting again, she twists sideways so that she is now in profile; her arse raised, her back is table-top flat as if leaning over an imaginary desk waiting for her skirt to be lifted up over her hips begging to receive her pre-decided punishment. And then the lights change, the bus lurches forward and then just as suddenly judders to a halt at the stop outside Blockbusters to let the old woman with the small terrier climb aboard. I really wish that she would put her teeth in!

A Brief Glimpse of the Outside World

I walked through town today and saw a wedding party having their photographs taken.

I realised, that in the real world, brides and lesbians never look as good as their glossy counterparts!

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.

Yesterday is gone

I was born in the wrong year, perhaps the wrong era, or perhaps in the wrong body; for surely our skin and bone is just a waste product that the soul will discard as easily as a whore takes off her dress!

Or perhaps, as passionately as my parents have wanted to climb from the earthy slum from which they were born I have always had an equal desire to slip back down into the mire; a desire not to mix with aspirants, a desire not to spend my evenings talking about house prices and the frightful worry of secondary school selection for their precious. I have always had the strongest desire to drink my drinks with men who have none of these concerns.

And tonight, as I walked passed The-Worst-Pub on the way to tesco metro I glanced into a window of the pub. Well, it was more than a glance, I stood transfixed starring into a world that was suddenly unfamiliar; it was a clean world, full of clean middle aged people reclaiming a building that had been occupied by the enemy since time began. The room that I could see from the street had used to be the nursery for tomorrows drinkers, the room where they first fell in love, had their first fight and more importantly it was the room where they learned the sacred rules of the pub drinker.

Take me back to the world of Shakespeare’s taverns or the smoke filled gin palaces of the nineteenth century. In fact, just take me somewhere else!

The Smoking Ban

This is my forth night on the bounce without going to The-Worst-Pub or indeed any pub since the smoking ban came into force at six o'clock on Sunday morning the first of July, in the year of our Lord two thousand and seven!

I love pubs! I have always loved pubs. But more to the point I love the inside of pubs; even on the hottest day of the year I would prefer to stand at the bar in the stifling heat rather than sit outside in the garden. If I want to sit in a garden and have a drink I can sit in my own!

After having experienced the ban in Ireland I know how crap it is. I don't have to go through a suck-it-and-see stage. I know already that I don't like it.

So, I have set up o'malleys bar in the kitchen! Put some cans in the fridge, turn the speakers around so they are facing in, put some peanuts in a thingy, lean against the work-surface and enjoy.

There are advantages to having a drink at home; It is a lot cheaper, music selection isn't left to some meatloaf fan with an inexhaustible supply of pound coins, you don't have to wait for ten minutes to get served at the bar, the surroundings are clean, and I am yet to hear a racist remark.

But, to be brutally honest it's a bit dull.