The angry, angry man...
I was working in a pub as a student, when I met the angry, angry man. Red-faced, sweaty, and doing the heavy-but-slow breathing of someone trying desperately to hold their temper, it was clear that he was very, very angry. He looked like most callers to Local Radio phone-ins sound...

'Stella!'
'We don't have Stella, mate. Carlsberg Export?.'

This was too much for the angry, angry man... he clearly felt that I was conning him in some way, and lost control, his voice raising to a strained pitch

'What sort of fucking pub doesn't have Stella?'
'Erm... this one.'
'Fucking hell... alright.'

As I'm pouring, his ladyfriend comes in behind him. A Tasmanian Devil-like blur of screaming and blonde hair and lipstick. I realise, looking on, that she is possibly more angry than he is. As he retreated out of the door again, forgetting about having his quiet drink, she followed him out, loudly questioning his manhood, his parentage, and, indeed, his sexuality.

Unwilling to take his frustration out on her, he lashed out with a mighty kick at the pub sign as he exited. In a cruel addition to his already burgeoning woes, he hadn't taken account of the fact the sign was made of heavy wood and metal, and weighed down with sand in the base to stop local youths nicking it.

He'd be lucky if he hadn't just broken his foot. How we laughed as he hopped off down he street on his one good foot, driven on by the relentless beating his partner was now administering with her handbag.

Once I had recovered from the hilarity of this unexpected spectacle, I returned to my place behind the bar, and drank the angry, angry man's pint.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 10:55, 1 reply)

This has made me feel all Christmassy and special in my inappropriate place.
Lovely!
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Fri 18 Dec 2009, 11:14, closed)