Be British. Look, but don't stare.
I went into my local once and two lads were standing at the bar wearing Hari Krishna nappies. They had the orange accessories, so they must have been the real thing, but they looked very English. Being British no one said a thing.
(Aggers and Jonners, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 20:21, Reply)

Eavsdropping chav lovers tiff
in one of the village pubs.

She: "y'upset meeee"
He: "if you talk to me like that again I'm going to shove your head right throught that fucking window"

Ahhh, young love...
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 19:58, Reply)

Well what do you know!
A couple of mates and I are currently touring all pubs around our local Kingston Upon Thames, there have been some strange stories.

kingstonpubguide.blogspot.com/

Some of my faves are The Cocoanut and The Willoughby Arms.
Feel free to leave as many sarcastic comments as you like :)
( Mx-Dr Trying to be somewhere between an ape and a robot., Wed 11 Feb 2009, 18:57, 10 replies)

Dropping the kids off
Pink and golden shimmers flecked the sky, tingeing fluffy, sweeping clouds with a magical glow. The scent of freshly felled pine trees was reminiscent in my nostrils as we drove away from Thrunton Woods. DG and I had enjoyed a hike with Mildew (our dog) and some "golden time" in the forest, drinking in the view of the rolling Rothbury hills. A thoroughly soul-lifting day it had been.

As had become habit on a Sunday afternoon, we stopped at the local Tap & Spile for a pint with Legless on the way home; the equivalent of Wallace & Grommit ending a grand day out with cheese & crackers.

We greeted eachother with the usual snogs, beer & crisps (pork scratchings for Mildew). Still clenching my pelvic floor muscles with an iron grip, Legless was about to regail us with a tale....

"Hang on two minutes Leggy," I interupted, "I must drop the kids off *EDIT* in the pool first....."

And off I scampered to the loo. Which was directly behind our seats. With relief, I released DG's soft vanilla emulsion into the pan, did a quick clean up with a Lidl's baby wipe and returned to my freshly poured pint. Eyes fixed on the foamy goodness, salivating in anticipation of the first mouthful, it took a moment for me to register why our company were all spluttering beer through their nostrils, spoiling the opened packets of beefy snacks.

They'd heard the spladoosh from behind them.
( Tourette's ( . )( . ) has a monkey hair in her fried egg, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 18:51, 10 replies)

pool
i'd love to be the kind of girl who stands in a pub, designer beer bottle in one hand, pool cue in the other, coolly demolishing every man foolish enough to play with me.

instead, i am far too paranoid to stick my arse in the air so publicly, my boobs get right in the way, and i end up hitting a spakker shot that might just air kiss a ball of the right colour if the wind is blowing in the right direction. and the table has a leg missing.

so one day my friend catherine and i decided that we were fed up of sucking at pool. how hard could it be, we thought. so we headed down to the nearest local dive, which had about 5 pool tables in it.

it took us the best part of an HOUR to finish the first game. by the end of it, everyone else in the pub was slow hand clapping and catherine was nearly crying with embarrassment. i was too pissed to care.

to top it all off, we'd both had our wallets nicked whilst we were poring over the table.

pool sucks!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 18:45, 3 replies)

as a student
i used to spend my summers as a mild mannered letting agent by day, and a barmaid by night. one summer, i was working in a lovely cheshire country pub. i nearly fell over backwards when my boss' son, with whom i was totally in love, walked in with his mates.

"oh haiii," i breathed, leaning forward over the beer pump. only to be cut off by a red faced lardy lump of fire breathing doom.

so after they had been thrown straight back out again by an enraged manageress, she turned on me.

"do you KNOW them?"

"erm, not very well," i stammered.

"humph. barred for life," the dragon said. timidly, i enquired why, and she swept her hand around the pub. this is an old inn, with the bar split into 4 low, stone ceilinged rooms with real open fire places.

"last summer, i spent £500 filling them fireplaces with lovely dried flower arrangements. them lot came in and...." her bosom quivered, "said that a fireplace needs a fire. and burned my lovely flowers right up." she snorted in disgust.

i had to bend down to tie my shoelaces up pretty quickly after that!

we also served a lager that was so strong, there was a 2 pint per customer limit. yeah, that got adhered to faithfully...
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 18:32, 1 reply)

re andy the pieman below too many plays
elias and his zigzag flutes "tom hark"
If one of you bastards puts that on again I`m gonna take his balls off or bar him for life
(landlady at yourkshire lockin pub in a previous post)
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 17:51, Reply)

Tolerance
I once found out that there is a limit to the number of times you can play Shakin Stevens finest hit "Green Door" on a jukebox before someone tried to kill you.
(andythepieman Is surfing the waves of indifference on, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 17:43, 2 replies)

my local
just started serving cocktails. the other night a woman came in and ordered a double entendre, so the barman gave her one
( Reme Philips laid an epic dump on, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 17:15, 5 replies)

The Spanish think I'm a god
It can be the only explanation.

I haven't travelled abroad all that much but I once spent two weeks in Majorca with my mate staying in a flat that belonged to his mate's parents. It was in Cala Major which is not really a touristy place, more for the locals.

This was during the European Championships 2004 and I like to watch as many of the matches as possible so we started to frequent a small bar which had a sign outside advertising the fact that they were showing the matches on BBC and ITV via satellite.

Apart from us, the only time any English went in there was for the England games.

We were treated like royalty:

The barman gave us a free shot of Jagermeister with every pint.

He reserved the table with the best view of the TV for us every night.

They bought us the menu from the restaurant nearby and then fetched our meals for us so we could eat watching the games.

They kept the bar open long after everyone else had left until we were ready to stagger back to the flat.

Wonderful place, must go back some time soon.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 17:07, 2 replies)

White russian, anyone ???

Back in the heady days of the early ninetees, I used to know a girl named Kate.

Or, to use her nickname, Bucket Fanny.

This nickname was well-earned. She was, shall we say, a bit of a goer.

I recall one occasion in the Student Union Kate aka Bucket Fanny picked up this fella with the grace, flair, and poise of a street hooker. Within about five minutes she was leading this young gentelman by the cock to the toilets.

We carried on with our drinks and general talk about fuck all.

Kate returns about ten minutes later, her lips tightly sealed. She sits down, picks up a shot glass, and gobs out a rather sizable load of man juice, filling the shot glass just about half full.

"White russian, anyone?" She said, sounding rather pleased with herself.

Now that, my friends, is a fucking show stopper...
( SpankyHanky, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 16:52, 11 replies)

My favourite pub
was one I encountered while holidaying in the Algarve. It's called The Bull.

A picture of this establishment can be found here (SFW). As you can see, it serves Boddingtons, one of my most favouritest of the beer families.

This is unusual for Portuguese bars, as I'm sure you can imagine, them being a far cry from rainy Manchester where I first fell in love with the drink, so you can imagine my delight when, after a fairly tedious day avoiding the mouth breathers on the beach, I walked in to be greeted by that familiar yellow and black pump.

At first I didn't hold out a lot of hope, knowing that some beers just don't travel well, so when that first silky sip slid down my expectant oesophagus I was practically creaming (do you see what I did there?) my pants in delight when it tasted every bit as good as I remember from my student days.

I went on to enjoy one or two more and got chatting with the proprietor, a short bloke called "Pablo" with a bright shirt and a small brown moustache (yes I realise he was a walking cliché, I too found it amusing). He spoke very good English, which was just as well as my Portuguese is very bad, limited as it is to ordering a few meals and the universal sign language for "beer please".

As the evening wore on I became increasingly distracted by the irritating whine of a bunch of Scottish people and their kids who were sitting outside, and had obviously been there for some time as they were slurring their words and looked like they were having trouble focusing as they poured pint after pint of wife beater down their lobster red throats.

The kids were even worse, little shits running round the tables, banging chairs and screeching at the top of their voices. I raised my eyebrows to Pablo and shrugged in that universal way as to indicate "what a bunch of total cunts but what can you do eh?". He grinned in the universal reply of "yeah, total fucktards, but they keep paying so who am I to judge".

I smiled and nodded to indicate that "yeah, good business I guess" with a one sided smirk and tilt of the head to say "they'll get theirs eventually the twats." Pablo let out a hearty chuckle which told me "maybe, my friend, maybe" and poured me another pint.

"This one is on me my friend" he said as he put it on the bar. I thanked him profusely and we continued to banter until finally my drooping eyelids told me it was time to go home.

I really enjoyed that pub.

Funnily enough I saw a picture of Pablo in the paper shortly after returning home. You can see it here(also SFW). I like to think those scottish twats got theirs in the end mind.
(Bazongaloid, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 16:48, 10 replies)

Bizarre and Totally Gross
One of my good friends brother, Mike, plays Rugby. He's about 6ft 7, but one of the nicest guys you will ever meet - he's also a dead ringer for Dean Cain, the guy who played superman in the TV series.

Anyway, when Mike wasn't on tour, he would introduce us to all the latest drinking games..and over time, you build up a tollerance to alcohol. I never was a big drinker, but would think nothing of drinking 8 pints (usually 1 would be downed, due to the rule, you couldn't be double parked.. Mike however, like the rest of the Rugby team could drink 15 pints easy!).

It was suggested that we all descend upon the 'Rugby club' as the beer was cheaper..
So off we went, and to say my eyes were opened is an understatement !

The whole team were there.. Having boat races, and downing pints in a couple of seconds. Then as a party piece, one player downed his pint and then proceeded to eat the glass. (It took him about 5 minutes to chomp through the whole thing..but thats not the point!).

One player came running through the bar naked, with a long strip of toilet paper hanging out of his arse - lit like a fuse..

Then it was up to the captain to shine ! He stood at the bar and finished his pint, then he got down on his knees as a couple of lads held a 4 pint container steady whilst the captain placed a funnel in his mouth.

CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG.. rang through the air..

And Chug he did. All 4 pints gone. Then he stumbled over to the bar, picked up his empty glass, and filled it to the top with puke.

After it was filled.. he calmly placed it on the bar, and picked up another fresh pint of beer, and started drinking again.

I haven't been back for a while...
(TheRiddler Hmmmmm... I concur., Wed 11 Feb 2009, 16:32, Reply)

A thoroughly pleasant night for all concerned
It was the start of my third year at university. During my second year I had become a regular at the pub my friends worked in, a nice, student-friendly place which still had all the usual locals - Andy Windows the window-cleaner, Sami the kebab-shop owner, Brian the guy who took quiz night way too seriously, Russ the former lecturer who had pleurisy from 40 years of excessive marijuana intake and wouldn't give it up, 24-year old Danny who'd given himself kidney failure and lost his septum from too much coke and drinking and wouldn't give THAT up either... etc.

But the best lot were the landlords and their family. Tony was a great guy who I've never heard anyone say a word against. Boyzo, their son, who you should never leave alone with his parents when drunk - he smashed the jukebox, quiz machine, numerous doors and pint glasses in fits of anger over their misunderstandings. Angie, big brassy Devon lass, the landlady, who was lovely if you were on her right side but god help you if you crossed her, and Carly, the daughter who was a magnified version of her mum.

Over the summer, me and a friend had been involved in a car crash. She worked in their kitchens at the time, and despite being in a neck brace, went back to work two days after the crash because she needed the money. Well it took Carly all of two days to shout at her because apparently she wasn't working hard enough. She hadn't been happy beforehand anyway, so she quit. They barred her. I stopped attending in protest.

Until the night I got utterly smashed at the pub up the road. And took a couple of pills to go with it (this was back in my reckless days). I walked into my old local at about 9 and can't remember anything until a half-hour window of lucidity between 11 and 11.30 - but apparently, after an open-armed "cyph! where have you been?" welcome, I proceeded to tell the landlady and her daughter exactly why I hadn't been in and what I thought of their treatment of my friend in no uncertain terms, then walking off as if nothing had happened and being extremely loud and obnoxious for the rest of the night.

I am told I left them speechless.

This was also the night I got off with four other girls apart from the one I was supposed to be getting off with. And kissed a guy.

It was one of my proudest moments.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 16:24, 2 replies)

Aberdeen Local
My local in Aberdeen about 10 years ago, it was a bit of a dump but it was 5 minutes walk from the house so handy for a quick pint. It had two entrances one at the front and a less used back door that over looked a small park.

So one sunny summer evening I decided to go for a pint using the park entrance. I get to the park and could see 3 people standing just beside the door, getting closer it turned out to be a guy and two girls all aged about 17. The guy comes up to me and I am thinking “he is going to ask for a fag or to get him a carry out.

How wrong could I be. He says “what do you think?” I say “think about what ?” “These” he says, as one of the girls pulls up her jumper to show of her rather nice tits.

I was so dumb smacked I didn't say a thing and just went into the bar. To this day I am still not sure if it was a dream. They pulled the place down not long after.
(nee22 NL ExPat, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 15:42, 5 replies)

The Night Tom Jones Came To Town
During my first year at Cardiff, a new pub opened up the road from our halls, called Gassy Jacks.

It was fairly big, helped by a seated gallery area, had TVs everywhere showing MTV or sports (fairly avant garde for a pub at the time) and a stage where every night you could see bands playing (including names you'd actually heard of - Hugh Cornwell out of The Stranglers, for instance).

It quickly became our second home.

Early in my second year, a mate came up from London for the weekend - we had tickets for the Manics, who were playing the student union on Saturday night (this was in Generation Terrorists era).

On the Friday, we went to Gassy Jacks, but left at half ten because my mate wanted to go to the student union for late drinks, and we wanted to avoid the queue.

Boy, did we miss out.

Gassy Jacks was run by a guy who used to be in the band Amen Corner (If Paradise Was Half As Nice...), who knew Tom Jones from back in the 60s.

Tom Jones was in the middle of a run at St David's Hall in the centre of Cardiff.

I was told afterwards that around normal last orders time (11pm back then), the manager went on the PA and said anyone who wanted to leave within the next couple of hours should go now, anyway who wanted to stay would be pleasantly surprised.

Shortly after, Tom Jones turned up, with his band.

Who proceeded to do an impromptu gig which lasted into the early hours.

Tom fucking Jones. In a pub. In Cardiff. And I missed it.

Gutted isn't the word. People were talking about it years after.

In fact, for that one night, that little part of Cardiff became a central focus of the rock'n'roll universe - a girl in our year at uni had been to see the Happy Mondays in Newport that evening, had met Shaun Ryder afterwards, who had his driver take them both back to her place in Cardiff, just down the road from Gassy Jacks, where they spent the night shagging (rather loudly, according to her housemates).

Length?

Tom Jones, about an hour and a half.
Manics, about 45 minutes.
Shaun Ryder, she never said.
(Capo, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 14:56, 8 replies)

The story at least starts in a pub
I wondered if this girl is actually a closet B3tan after she came out with this line. So I can and will name names just to see.

~~wavy lines for back in time~~

The story starts in a Godawful 80's bar in Dundee, and it just so happened to be karaoke night. There was a small group of us, not that we were singing, it's more fun just to giggle at the people massacring (sp?) their way through the tunes.

After getting rather merry on overpriced and rather inferior vodka, it was decided to migrate to the only half-decent mainstream club in the city. Now not even wild horses could get me into that wretched place, but I was a deluded student at the time.

"Happily" dancing away to some terrible music in the club, I notice that Laura has been mislaid. She's with karaoke-organiser-guy and appears to be sucking face with him.

Bemoaning the lack of a camera, I alert the rest of the group to see her antics.

The next day, Nicola tells Laura what she was doing and Laura comes out with the immortal line "Pictures or it didn't happen."
(Meya, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 14:24, 3 replies)

not my local but
i once saw david mitchell (the fat one off of peep show) having a few in the oxford arms in north camden town. he was there with this fat bird, or at least she was trying to chat him up, and i promise you, he was totally in character.
the worst part was, having watched peep show extensively, i could imagine his inner monologue as she proceeded to explain how, why and when she had decided to give up smoking.
(amauriosis fugax took more than one snow day off, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 14:23, 9 replies)

A pearoast...
I can proudly recall my mates and I being asked to leave a pub called the Stepping Stones in the early 90s for "harrassing the locals". All we were doing was playing a game we'd invented called "looky likey" which basically involved spotting drinkers who vaguely looked like celebrities. My brother had a piss standing next to Annie Lennox at one stage and I think that was the straw that broke the camel's back.
'Appy days.
( BobbyParadise, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 14:10, Reply)

The Central
A few years back this pub was run by the late, great Dave. He was a mason and looked a bit like a Bee Gee. His famous catchphrases included (on meeting a new drinker) "This is the Central, and you're welcome to it" (and at last orders) "ain't you got no homes to go to? Ain't you got no mums and Dads?"
Rest in peace Dave - you were a local legend.
( BobbyParadise, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 13:59, 2 replies)

Ohhhhh, Gino ! ! !

I've seen porn karaoke (rather unpleasant and you wouldn't want to be sitting in the front two rows).

I've seen underwater karaoke (how somebody didn't get electrocuted I do not know).

I've even seen a load of midgets performing the hits of Queen in their underware.

But the best ever karaoke performace I witnessed was at a dive in Blackpool. I'd noticed earlier in the evening a girl having a storming row with this fella off to one side. Loud voices, waving arms, a drink may have been thrown. But it was a loud place and the karaoke was pretty entertaining, so didn't take too much notice.

After a while this girl saunters onstage, and the sexy, slinky chords of Gino by Dexy's Midnight Runners starts. Now, I don't know the words to this except for the 'Giiii-nooooo!' bit. Hmmm, this might be interesting, I thought.

And it was.

The girl sang the whole song, addressing and pointing at her boyfriend who sat through the entire performance, his face set like stone. Only she changed the words. She changed all the words except for the 'Giiiii-nooooo!' bit, at which point she would gesticulate at her boyfriend even more frantically and urge all the onlookers to join in.

All she did was sing one line over and over and over again. Bending it and shaping it so it fitted in with the sway of the song.

She sang: "He's got a tiny cock! Heeeessss goooottt a tiiiii-nnnn-eeee cooooo-cccckkkk! He's got a tiny cock! Heeeeessss gooooottttt aaaaa tiiiiii-iiii-iiii-nnnnnn-eeeee cccoooo-cccckkkkk!!!"

And then the whole crowd of people would join in with the: "Ahhhh, Giiiii-noooooo!!!" bit.

All I can say is I presume her boyfriend's name was Gino.
( SpankyHanky, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 13:38, 2 replies)

The Nightjar
A larger than is healthy percentage of my mis-spent youth was lived out between those four walls. So many happy memories, including:
Bunking off 6th form for the afternoon and gambling on the fruit machine.
The Bog Cram – a challenge to see how many pissed up locals could squeeze themselves into a toilet cubicle. 17, if my memory serves me correctly.
Going for a piss and pulling your trousers and pants right down to your ankles like when you’re 5 years old for the amusement of the blokes walking in afterwards.
Playing “Killer” on the dartboard and always collectively knocking Phil out first as he got a proper cob on every time. Priceless.
Halloween fancy dress nights where for some reason a prize was given for the best bloke in drag. The aforementioned Phil went to the trouble of shaving his legs to go with his little velvet black cocktail dress one year which most thought was taking it a bit too far…
A New Year’s game where all of us (male) locals took Polaroid pictures of our cocks and separate ones of our faces then got the girls to match them up. Interesting results.
“Layla” by Derek and the Dominoes playing almost constantly on the old jukebox and then when it was replaced with a video one “Black Hole Sun” by Soundgarden.
Writing and presenting the Tuesday night pub quiz and getting paid in beer for it. I used to include a bonus round of drinks prize for the sickest and most topical team name. The week in which Bill Clinton allowed homosexuals to serve in the US army the winning team were called “Bill backs down on gay privates”. You don’t even want to know about some of the others, trust me.
The legendary lock-ins. The best one I can remember ended with us opening the doors at 11am and ordering breakfast…
Working my way through about 12 barmaids in a row with the line “I live down the road and have a waterbed”. This information preceded me sometimes and once I pulled the new barmaid before I met her. This was a long time ago, before I was an old greying fat man, by the way.
Many many more I could tell, and maybe will another time.

The Nightjar has sadly turned into one of those soulless generic chain pub places these days, but anyone who used to drink there in the 80s and 90s will remember it as fondly as I do. Ahhh. Them were the days.
Nice to be back, by the way - I've been busy having twins (not in the fun way, either).
( BobbyParadise, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 13:30, Reply)

I went into a gay bar once
and I thought they were really helpful chaps.

One guy even offered to push my stool in.

No apologies for length - You should've seen the admiring looks I got when I said, "No thanks, I can manage it myself"
(oneinthepink is at your cervix m'lady, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 13:11, 2 replies)

My local is being refurbished.
It's called the "Coventry Arms".

It's an unmitigated shitehole that makes the bar in Mos Isley look like the Ritz. The clientele are, in general, chav scumbags with less teeth than sovereign rings and more money to flash about than their meagre dole cheques would justify. It's a hole full of drunks, wannabe gangsters and their scrawny tattooed girlfriends. It's always been a hole, ever since it opened.

I wondered how they afforded the refurb in these dire days for the licenced trade until I remembered the small squadron of scooter riding DNA wastes that hang around outside, waiting for a couple of the regulars to take a call and then pass small packages to them. They then zim off into the night, returning later with small bundles of cash which they hand over. "Deals on wheels" as they're known locally.

I was accosted by the landlord this very morning, on my way out to work.
"Whaddya think of the new pub plans" he asked, "We're getting new toilets and the lounge is getting new seats and a full makeover, we're even going to do food!" he exclaimed excitedly.

"Well" I replied, "It's going to be an uphill struggle and I hope your contractors are specialists".

"They ARE" he replied.

"Really!?" I said, "I thought "turd polishing" was a dying art".

I think I'm barred and it's not even open yet.

Ah well.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 13:07, 3 replies)

Gay bar, gay bar, gay bar, WOW!
A friend (no really) once accidentally wandered into a gay bar in Wolverhampton. He had dropped his car off at a garage and fancied a spot of lunch so he wandered into the nearest drinking emporium.

Only after ordering his food did he realise where he was. Apparently the same sex couples sitting together, the homosexual artwork on the walls and the camp barman had failed to tip off this wanabe Sherlock Holmes as to his current whereabouts. Still, being a fairly open-minded sort of guy he decided to stay and eat his food.

After finishing his meal he went off to use the facilites. He found what he thought were the correct doors but couldn't figure out how to get inside the gents (ooh, matron.) That is until he noticed the interesting door furniture. Apparently the ladies door was adorned with large breasts that needed to be turned to gain access, and the gents . . . well, let's just say that the door handle was shaped like a very large, very erect, anatomically correct penis which had to be gripped hard and twisted in order to open the door.

He says he never felt so dirty.
(MrC. Having the most boring username on b3ta since 2004, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 12:47, 1 reply)

Does Anyone Watch The James May and Oz Clarke Show
About beers around Britain?

Well, they featured a pub last week (episode 5) where they worked behind a bar. It has a brewery attached to it, Saddlers Brewery and the pub is called The Windsor Castle. It's near Stourbridge west Mids. To locals it is actually in a place called Lye.

I have been drinking here since it opened up a few years ago. Its a nice little pub nestled between shit ones and was a bit of a hidden gem. My house is a 30 second walk down the road (I even saw them drive past it on the televisilbox. Woo!)

NOT ANY MORE.

Thanks James and OZ, On Saturday you could not put 2 steps inside the place thanks to all the mindless idiots that decided to 'give taht pub a go', just because they had seen it on the fucking TV whereas normally they would not have dreamt of stopping anywhere near the place because, well, "It's in Lye isn't it Daaahling."

Wankers...

Great beer tho. Thin Ice gets a 10/10 from me.
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 12:13, 7 replies)

Football and pubs
My local is a good football watching pub. Loads of TV's, all the channels, loads of seats (including a load of fold-away ones that turns the main bit into a virtual cinema) and, more importantly, it;'s fairly neutral. I say "fairly" because it is in Manchester, so there tends to be more City / United supporters in than any others.

One saturday afternoon, me and a couple of ManYoo supporting mates headed down for the usual "quick three matches and 12 pints" routine. The late game of the day was Newcastle vs ManYoo. By the time this match was due to kick-off, the pub was full of people who had been there most of the day and were feeling quite merry.

Just before kick-off, some studenty-looking lad (the pub in question is in Withington, which is a very studenty area) wanders in, wearing a Newcastle United shirt, scarf and bobble hat. He looked like a proper tit.

He found a space near the front and plonked himself down with his pint of tapwater.

Now, in this game, ManYoo didn't play particularly well and this lad was continuously giving it "Come on Newcastle! You can beat these! Come on the Maggers!" and so on. People were not impressed.

At half time, I was heading towards the bog on a path that would take me past this brave Geordie. The bloke walking in front of me, who could accurately be described as "a big, fat, scarey looking ManYoo supporting bastard", grabbed this lads bobble hat and kept walking. The lad objected, but could do very little about it, given the size difference between the two.

When the scarey bloke got into the bogs, he chucked the bobble hat in the unrinal and pissed on it. I pissed as quickly as I could, so I could see what happened next. The bloke fished the bobble hat out of the piss-trough, wandered back into the pub and plonked it back onto the Geordies head, then dried his hands on the lad's scarf.

I was creased laughing, which confused most people until the lad went "Eeeurgh! You've pissed on this!" The rest of the pub erupted in laughter. The lad left.

The only thing that spoiled it was ManYoo staged a comeback...
(ScousersPet, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 12:06, 5 replies)

rupert
is one of my brother's friends who fancies himself as a bit of a toff. for example, on being told that one of my friend's boyfriends had beaten her with a belt, he lifted an eyebrow and drawled: "i say. for pleasure? or for discipline?"

another example was when he complimented a friend's german boyfriend on his excellent english, saying that the english are very lazy at learning foreign languages. the german agreed and said jokingly, "zat is because of your damned imperialism."

at which rupert puffed on his cigar and said slowly, "steady on old chap, you've had a couple of cracks at that yourself."

so the other night we were all in the pub and rupert, who is a raving alcoholic (his round is 2 double vodkas and 1 can of redbull), was utterly leathered. we saw him at the bar, gesticulating at the barman, and the next minute he was being frogmarched out of the pub, feet literally off the ground, and thrown into the street.

we ran outside, to find him groaning in the gutter.

"what did you say to them?" we asked. rupert splattered to his feet, hair everywhere, and blinked at us.

"i told them," he said, staggering. "i told them... i told them... get your fucking dirty hands off my fucking blazer. i'm not going anywhere til you roll out the fucking red carpet."

and he collapsed back onto the street again.

the man is a legend!
( rachelswipe with a fork, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 12:02, 7 replies)

Apollo Space Programme my arse.
My local pub went to the fucking moon.

It was in the 80's, not long after Thatcher had come to power, one night it just drifted off from it's moorings and went all the way to the moon.

We got out, had a sort of shit, slow motion snowball fight with that moon-dust shit and then started figuring out how to get back. In the end we just got all the lighter fluid out of everyone's lighters (Cause you could give yourself cancer in a pub back then) and used it as a sort of makeshift rocket fuel.

We lifted off from the moon at about ten past eleven but no way was Terry going to call last fucking orders. There would have been a riot.
( Goatworrier had your mum and she was shit, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 10:54, 3 replies)

Ah London
My then girlfriend and I took a weekend break to London (a change from Ireland). We were up by Chinatown / Leicester Square and decided to go for a few pints before the meal. So we go up to a fairly nice looking bar and at the door was the biggest, scariest looking bouncer you'd ever see. He could have stepped out of a TV show called Ross Kemp's Big Hard Bastards Who Will Kill You For No Reason. Just as we're about to walk in the bouncer opens his gob and says in a mincey lisp that would have shamed Julian Clary says "you do realise this is a gay bar don't you". Well we did then.
(MagicMoose, Wed 11 Feb 2009, 10:53, Reply)