The Cockwell inn
Tillit, Herts.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 18:22, 5 replies)

My local pub is called The Gay Black Irish Gypsy...
...it has a sign outside which is very amusing because of it's discriminatory nature.
(eViLegion Chief Commissioner of the Scottish Lunacy Board, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 18:02, 2 replies)

The Nuthouse.
Actually, its name was the Nuthatch, but its nickname was far more appropriate. Things I witnessed there:

-A guy named Terry, famous for his shoulder-length blond hair, appeared one night shaved bald. A couple of hours later he staggered back in, face bloody from carrying a beer glass outside, tripping and falling face first onto it. He had no idea why people were staring at him and making a fuss.

-Several times I saw guys who were drinking beer while chewing tobacco, spit glass on the bar, take a gulp from the wrong one and sprint for the toilet.

-One night two guys decided to pull a classic prank. They filled a rubber hot water bottle with canned beef stew, which one of them put inside his shirt with the mouth of the bottle at the neckline. They drank a couple of beers, then the guy with the water bottle yelled "I'm gonna be sick!" and made barfing sounds as he pressed his arms to his stomach and chest to produce a fountain of chunky brown stuff that landed on the bar. His friend said "Hey, that looks pretty good!" and produced a spoon, then began eating it off the bar. Everyone ran from the bar retching, including the bartender.

I was through the area a few years ago. Even the building was gone.
( Wanderer, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 17:11, 2 replies)

I'll be surprised if The Flying Scotsman in Kings Cross hasn't been mentioned yet.
Back in the year 2000, I printed off a Monopoly Pub Crawl route map from that internet for my mate's stag. It was a helpful route plan, including bus stops and all that stuff.

We thought the Flying Scotsman had shut down when we reached it. It was all boarded up and sprayed with graffiti. We were about to walk away when one of the "boards" opened and someone left, blinking into the daylight. The Stag said "right, we're going in".

Once inside this squalid hovel, the clientelle and staff watched us warily. I looked around and noticed an older woman on the other side of the pub getting her tits out, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do in a pub. I thought this was odd, but the Stag wanted to investigate further.

Around the corner in a side room, a filthy room housed a even filthier section of King's Cross society watching a bored looking girl taking her clothes off on a makeshift stage.

When I refused to put some coins in a polystyrene cup that was passed around, we were told by the older woman that if we weren't going to pay, we had to leave. I didn't really need any more encouragement but I think the stag was genuinely gutted to leave. He's a bit 'alpha' like that.

This alpha nature made it awkward later on when the Monopoly List i'd printed sent us into the famous gay pub, the Halfway To Heaven in Trafalgar, which he couldn't want to leave. Great day out.
( Fray Brentos *mega-belms*, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 17:02, 9 replies)

My local is The Wagon and Horses.
In the car park there's a sign saying "No wagons or horses".

I think it's directed at travellers.
( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Mon 10 Feb 2014, 16:57, 2 replies)

Sign of the times
On an estate on the outskirts of Brighton is a fairly crap pub called The Traveller's Rest. At one time it famously sported a sign on the door saying "No Travellers".
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 13:22, Reply)

My favourite landlord of all time was a retired cockney barrow boy who'd spent his hookie earnings buying a country pub.
He was without exception the worst barman in the world. He couldn't pull a pint, couldn't operate the till, and couldn't remember more than one drink at a time.

He'd just pour a drink - often the wrong one - and wheeze 'anyfink else?'

I fucking loved that useless old cunt.
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 12:52, 15 replies)

The Prince of Teck in Earls court had it's moments, in the 1980s.
Sunday lunchtimes we used to get shitfaced at some other place in Fulham Palace road where they had strippers (can't remember the name), then go to Benjys cafe for a builders breakfast, then into the Prince of Teck for more shenanigans.

I brought my 16 year old brother along one day, to show him how the big boys spend their Sundays.

He was slightly shellshocked already, but as we walked into the POT, there was some argument going on with a punter and the staff, and one of the female bartenders launched herself over the bar, and started punching this guy in the face before throwing him physically out the door.

Not a bad day, all in all.
(username failed moderation, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 12:45, 9 replies)

Smashing boozer
I used to drink in a pub called the Robert Peel (after ye olde policeman) in Watford. It was positioned on a corner a convenient distance from town centre and the football ground.

I was used to the police having a high presence or even preventing people entering the pubs by the football ground on match days, but this pub was 5 minutes away so normally escaped the jam sandwich embargo.

I recall one day I walked to the pub and found a few police blocking the entrance, it took a minute or so to convince them I was local (complete with showing them my driving licence for ID) before they let me go in.

At the bar the usual faces were inside and I commented about the ordeal of getting in. "It's a Millwall match today, they're expecting trouble" I was told.

"Seriously? What kind of trouble would we get this far from the ground!?" I said, with almost perfect timing a metal litter bin from the high street came crashing through the window and landed on a table then fell to the ground beside me at the bar. Somehow I didn't spill my pint so went and sat down well away from the other windows!
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 12:25, 2 replies)

Bloke at the table next to me...
...is the loudest and most obnoxious bastard I have ever witnessed. He is on a mobile repeatedly calling someone a 'cunt' and telling them in no uncertain terms that he is going to 'fucking do them'. As his girlfriend gets up to go to the toilet, under the table he pisses in her handbag and goads his cronies to laugh with him.
As we are finishing our pints with an aim to a quick exit he gets out of his seat, walks over to the bar, punches a random punter in the back of the head and throws them towards the door.
Hurriedly, we start to leave. As I glance back to see he is not following with a machete I notice he is now behind the counter "Not staying for another one, lads?"
Which says a lot about Whitbread's recruitment policy in Gloucestershire in the early 90s.
(Tugnut I got them all..., Mon 10 Feb 2014, 11:56, Reply)

Let's see what the local is like...
After a hard day helping a friend move house, we decided to see what his new local was like. This was a pleasingly short distance from his house, so he was hoping for great things. From the outside all looked fine, but inside...

The decor had apparently been based on a doctor's waiting room that the owner had seen sometime around 1955. Cracked reddish lino covered the floor, and yellow melamine-topped tables had racks underneath to hold piles of magazines which appeared to date from the late Cretaceous era. The lighting was eye-searingly bright fluorescent tubes, that type with the flicker which was just below perception but would give even the kind of chap who likes to stick his head into the bass bins at a thrash metal gig a migraine within three minutes.

In front of the bar was a dog of startling ugliness, slumped in an unnatural position and leaking bodily fluids. We were just about to inform the barmaid that somebody seemed to have thrown a dead dog into the pub, when it suddenly leapt up and began to suck its own cock with noisy gusto.

The walls were decorated by a large number of paintings, every one of which was a portrait of the dog, and all executed by an artist of such breathtaking talentlessness that they actually managed to make the dog uglier, which I would have sworn was impossible.

There were only two other customers in the place, despite it being Friday evening. One was an actual example of that mythical pub regular, the old boy in a flat cap, nursing a half of mild and with a jack russel under his table. He seemed to be entirely disconnected with reality, in a personal world of his own, which was probably a good thing.

The second customer was sitting at the bar, in a strange green suit, with eyes that told a story - a story which involved putting "drink" on the form, when asked by the careers teacher what he wanted to do when he grew up. He was telling everybody who cared to listen, and us, and despite all the evidence to the contrary, that "This was a happy pub. It's a happy pub here, a happy pub. It's happy here, isn't it? Yes, a happy pub. A happy pub here."

We decided not to stay. As we turned around, I noticed that there was a strange wear pattern in the lino by the door, as if innumerable feet had spun 180 degrees on this very spot...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 11:50, 2 replies)

Hawley Arms, Camden, circa 1992
You could go in, score, and be out again in little over a minute.
(SigourneysBeaver took off and nuked the entire site from orbit on, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 11:42, 3 replies)

Closing early
There was (and probably still is) a wonderful establishment in West Hampstead (that's in London for those folk who may not know, because, you know, there are actual people outside of the South East of England that can read), called Latelys(sic).

It's the epitome of what the Americans would call a "dive bar" decked out in neon which semi-illuminate dark corners where "interesting" regulars lurk - so, a bit like B3TA then in some respects. It served as my first introduction to Absinthe, but it was on my second visit where they really set out their stall.

As my friend and I drank well into the night and befriended one of the regulars, an ex-bare-knuckle fighting mountain of a man, the owner suddenly announced that he would have to close early as his wife was ill so needed to get back to her. This was at 5am on a Tuesday morning.
( @><|= w0nu!) or cunt to my friends, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 10:50, 5 replies)

The landlord of the iffy pub down the road owns a fucking great big american Pit Bull.
He uses it to keep people about from his bins.
( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 8:17, 2 replies)

[picture of the band Dodgy drinking beer in a pub]

( Zuowan, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 3:58, 7 replies)

i experienced an interesting chat up in cardiff
when a woman proceeded to stick a pint tumbler up her jumper, express milk into it, and then offer it to me.
(andy blip glasgow mega snake, Mon 10 Feb 2014, 0:17, 5 replies)

Guitars, Cadillacs and hillbilly music.

( drimble he'd been white, he'd been black, Sun 9 Feb 2014, 23:14, Reply)

The Royal Exchange in Stourbridge, 1980s.
Having emerged from the 70s with its reputation as a diehard Biker's pub - stories such as the Landlord pursuing someone outside for damaging the jukebox, apprehending him as the guy climbed on his chopper, who then proceded to dissuade him with a sawn-off an inch from his face-

the late 80s it emerged as one of the best venues for listening to rock music (place a bit small to host an actual band) and good beer and good company. You wouldn't be ejected if you didn't have a biker jacket or a heavy metal t-shirt but you might feel a little outnumbered. Young lads and lasses mixed freely with unreformed crusty greebos from the previous decades. The odd whiff of dope, the occasional tattooed face but no problems. Every Friday night, busy. Every Saturday night, packed. Also, I met Brian Tatler there, the Diamondhead guitarist whose riff for 'Am I Evil' is credited with influencing the architects of thrash metal. And yet such a humble man to talk to :-)

Then the landlord changed and the new guy decided that he wanted to impose his idea of a theme on the place and all of a sudden it changed character, called 'The Meeting Place'. Apparently he was a buddhist hippy vegan who had travelled the world in search of spiritual enlightenment and the decor soon had 'inspirational quotes' painted on walls, and the black timbers and purple velvet seating became bean-bags and retro-chic distressed sofas and murals of Caribbean desert island sunsets. The music they played was very inoffensive middle of the road pop and AOR. The lunchtime menu featured a lot more things with the word 'bean' in it.

Slowly the hard rock fraternity left after they realised it was staying like this and went to alternate pubs around the area with more Metal Credibility. But occasionally I'd pop my head in to see if any of the old crew came back in to meet up and saw the hardcore crusty greebos refusing to be ousted, so sat in their corner still sporting Hawkwind t-shirts, grey beards (well maybe not the women) and aged, cracked shiny-through-wear biker leathers, they repulsed the new clientele that the landlord was trying to attract. A steady stream of art college students buying a half of lager (and making it last 3 hours) kept the place afloat for a while but it could not sustain itself. The lunchtime trade of pensioners shopping who used to get a cottage pie and chips could not refill the coffers as it had once done because they no longer opened during the day. So slowly and inevitably it dies on its arse.

After that landlord gave up on the place the next guy in (I assume he was backed by a chain or a group of investors) tried to change the Exchange's character again to attract a new, dynamic young happening smart crowd, so the architect designed a new steel-and-glass interior (ostensibly to reflect the industrial heritage of the area, in both glass and steel which was once produced locally) and renamed it The Glasshouse.

As a trick and a talking point the downstairs ceiling which was also the upstairs floor was made of hardened inch-thick glass sheets. A technological marvel. A styling conversation point. Because glass, as we know, is transparent. Which meant anyone downstairs could look up and see straight up the skirts of any girls upstairs.

That didn't last long. It's now boarded up.

Moral of the story -if the pub's not broken, don't try and fix it.
( Rotating Wobbly Hat That's not a banana. THIS is a banana., Sun 9 Feb 2014, 19:22, 1 reply)

After breaking a cue over a friend during a boisterous game of pool once,
the bar staff didn't even ask how it happened, they just charged me a fiver and gave me a new one.
(Woodlouse say it with flowers. Send her a Triffid, Sun 9 Feb 2014, 14:46, 33 replies)

I'm not looking at your bird...
The Razz, Liverpool. Student night on a Tuesday. Me and about 8 mates have been in the Scream pub watching the football and proceed to the Razz for much cheap beer and possible pulling.

Get in, and go to the bar. Standing, waiting to catch the eye of the bar maid, I feel my shirt sleeve being pulled. I pull my arm closer but the pulling continues, so I turn around to ask what is wrong..

You know that moment when in the second of bravado, you say something without looking first...

I turn and say something like "what the fuck do you want?" and I am looking on my eye-line at a pair of pec's that could serve a roast boar on each of them. He must be 6 foot 6.

"Have you been looking at my girls tits?" The living wardrobe asks. I have not even seen a girlfriend.
"No" I reply.
"Would you like to? Only £2 a look. A £10 for a blow job!"
"No thanks" I squeak.
"Why the fuck would you not want to look?...." comes the next more intimidating line...

I have never walked from a pub with greater haste..
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 23:59, 8 replies)

the grafton
once a moderately classy place, ballroom, tea dances, that kind of thing. i'd heard stories about how bad it had got, but they just seemed too ludicrous to be true.
about 10 years ago, a friend and i decided to go there(because it was a £10 all-in night) and give it a try. we'd barely walked in the door before spotting a woman on the balcony giving someone a blowjob. a quick look round made it clear that nobody was paying any attention to this. it also revealed another friend of ours, who was well on her way to being shitfaced.
"hey, ali," i said, "can you see what those two up there are doing?"
"oh yeah," she replied, "that's normal."
not sure if it was or not, but we were out of there before balcony woman got off her knees.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 18:00, Reply)

Went to a pub for a pool match once that was slightly rough.
When we walked into the establishment my gaze wasn't taken by the numerous thugs covered in tattoos or the haze of smoke drifting through the pub, but rather by the full size alsatian sitting by a stool at the bar with his own pint. Bet it was a shandy.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 17:28, 1 reply)

the Prince of Orange, Chelmo.
a foetid pit of dealers, potheads, crusties, bikers and drunks. also the best pub ever. just saying.

you can all fuck off. now.
( janet aylia y'all motherfuckers need jesus, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 15:09, 2 replies)

Some dodgy bars what I saw

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 15:03, 2 replies)

A Liverpool Institution The Blob Shop has begun reviewing other bars in Liverpool.
The Blob Shop seems to be one of those pubs that closes only to hose the floor down, restock the bar and open again. It's bar flies have evolved into a new genus of being and it's clientèle are mostly old, mostly pissed and nearly always the wrong side of 'fragrant'.

As a alehouse bonus it has a bookies above it. Class.

I am not witty enough to rival the eloquence contained in this blog.

theblobshop.blogspot.co.uk/
( rjmrjm, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 13:03, 9 replies)

I'd avoid any pub that allowed stand-up like this
Awooga. What a rush.

Right. Yeah, I got my notes here just in case I completely forget what I'm fucking saying. So, how are we all? Are we all good? Excellent, excellent.

Right, like, I was sort of rehearsing earlier. It is an absolute fucking pleasure to be here in despite the fact that my heart is currently going nineteen to a dozen and I feel like I'm about to take my driving test. Which I failed three times in a row. However, I- the last time I maintain it wasn't my fault.

I like to maintain- thanks there- I like to maintain- God, that's fucking distracting.

I like to maintain that it wasn't actually my fault. It was actually the fact that the OAP stepped out in front of me. And the fact that driving examiner was actually y-

Are you fucking filming? You bastard. Oh for God's sakes. Anyway, urm.

I like to maintain that it wasn't my fault. It was in fact the fault of the driving examiner in that she didn't get there with the dual controls quick enough. That, and she was a frustrated Daily Mail reading bitch queen man-hating whore from hell. But, so it goes so.

So, I asked, I asked how you-we all were earlier. And, you know, you all obviously responded in the positive. But the answer that you never expect- which admittedly, I've never got- but you live in hope and you don't turn round and say "Actually Jim, I've just been bumraped by a tramp". Yes, I know that's gross-out humour but, any porn in a storm, right. And, especially tramps.

But anyway, and, uh, you know, If you're just asking someone how they are you don't expect their fucking life story. And if you get it, my resp-, my reaction is to go alright I'm going now bye bye.

Anyway

Let's put that back up straight.

Anyway.

So.

With sort of like with seeming in mind, urm, it is obviously festival season. Anyone going to any rock festivals soon? Leedsfest? Good luck.

Right.

Because, because, I'm not sure if this is true or not, but I had heard a story about a guy who sort of like, he's shall we say just a little bit different. He dresses up in a dry suit, this is from what I've heard, I don't know if it's true or not, dresses up in a dry suit with like full mask and snorkel and everything else. And goes and lurks in the long drops. And likes to play a little game with people. Yeah, you've heard this before haven't you. Oh well, so it goes. And, urm, you know he, he likes to, uh, like I say, play a little game. Don't spoil the punchline for me, please. Otherwise I'll be singling you out for a complaint later on. And, like I say, likes to lurk and he lurks in the long drops. Until you at the most vulnerable, your trousers around your ankles already feeling a little bit bleurrgh because of all of the various substances alcohol and the fact that, you know, your dung handles are you know pretty much brushing your shoes. And just at that moment apparently he likes to pop up and just go POP UP PIRATE you know like that.I'm gonna say if you've not had a shit before you certainly will after that.

That's just some of the silliness that we see on a daily basis. I mean, for example, once I was waiting at a train station taking part in the commonly known activity as waiting for trains. As you do. And I was there obviously watching the situation. There was my favourite member of the human species just for taking the piss out of: The Chav. He was standing there doing what chavs do - being fucking annoying cunt. But anyway. He was standing there with his can of Special Brew, cigarette, and mobile phone playing what can only be described as fucking noise.

Oi, Wh-where you going?

Alright.

Anyway, back to the story, so he said, doing what he's doing, and there's this little eight year old running around doing what eight year olds do - going, sort of going like "ooh, well, happy days, happy days", you know, I'm not going to run around and run up all my energy so that I won't be an annoying little gimp whatever. And of course his parents were there, I mean, who would leave an eight year old child on there own with a train station? But, come off it. Sorry. And urrrm, yes, so he they're all in their accepted roles. I'm there being the observer thinking "my God, you're being so annoying", and you know, the chav is just going murmrmrmumrmr ntz ntz ntz coming out the mobile playing. And this you know the eight year old is running around playing gets fixed up a gear in the headlights with this chav and this chav just turns round and says "what you looking at?", as chavs apparently like to do when they're sort of like glanced at for half a microsecond by anyone. And this little kid, quick as ever, hold on two seconds, quick as a flash turns around like that and says "I don't know, but it appears to be trying to communicate with me". And I swear to God I've never seen anyone go from angry to confused at the flip of a switch. And the parents just grabbed this kid - Woah! - You know, and, you know, just got out of the situation I'm just sat there silently pissing myself with laughter. Not at the moment, thank God. And, urm, I was there, you know, and you never stood a chance under the towering intellect of an eight year old.

Anyway, right, but, still good chavs.

Sometimes I like to take a look at my friend, thank you very much Robert Chorlton, and for driving, you know, so I don't have to deal with the bane of Britain's model train system or the wonders of some might say. You know, the inevitable delays, leaves on the line, the platitudes that come out of the speakers, like: "We are sorry to announce the train has been delayed, there is a sheep on the line currently being buggered by a Welshman". For all you Welsh people out there, it's kind of my trait to take the piss out of them. For I am British after all.

So we're driving around and we see this chav on a bike - will you please pay attention - so we're driving along and - behave - there we are. "I wanna run that chav over, I wanna run that chav over". I'm just there thinking "why would you do that? I don't want that on my conscience. It could be my bike".

Okay, I was thinking that could have gone a lot better than it did. But never mind, so yeah. But anyway, on a final note, I'm just gonna end with this sort of like little this sort of review of life. We all see some pretty stupid fucking things, not at least, anyone from Wakefield here by the way? Apart from myself. Excellent right. I'm guessing some of you here heard about that Romanian who decided to rape someone in Clerkgate Station so he could go to prison and learn English. What the fuck is he going to learn? "Somebody pass the soap"?

Thank you very much you people have been beautiful goodnight.
( Fucking hell Jeff I am not a robot, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 11:20, 3 replies)

Beer and wanking
20 years ago I was a young spirit, scraping across Americas underbelly, looking under stones for whatever ghastly sordid fabulousness I could find.
Was in The Hole In The Wall in San Francisco. The bar was nicely dingy, with a tv suspended from the ceiling at a jaunty angle.
On the tv were loads of clips from The Simpsons, stupid tv adverts, and assorted visual randomness, flicking back and forward merrily.
Then, every couple of minutes, there would be a 5 second click of a hairy, overweight man wanking merrily away. Then back to The Simpsons for a few more minutes, then more hairy man wanking.
The hairy man bore more than a passing resemblance to the barman.
So, man gets paid to serve us beer, and makes us watch him wank.
Nice pub otherwise.
( normix, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 10:50, Reply)

Scotland
I made the mistake of ordering a pint of Stella in a pub in Scotland once and the landlord said 'what are yee, a fuckin poof?'
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 10:06, 12 replies)

I have the power.

( d.r._and_quinch when will you be famous?, Sat 8 Feb 2014, 9:23, 7 replies)