Worst first impression ever.
This is loosely based on pubs but I'm told it's entertaining so I'll post it here for your reading pleasure.

Basically, it was Jane's (name changed as I'm still trying to hit that but if she does read it, she'll know it's me), who I'd known for nearly two weeks, birthday and she was having people over hers. I was invited, and as I liked her I was definitely going to go.

No-one else I knew was going so I thought, "Right, before I go, a quick drink at the pub to grease the old charm muscles". This quickly turned into three. So anyway, I leave the pub (told you it was loose), get there, but not feeling drunk, probably due to the bitter coldness and the 20 minute walk there.

So, I get there and me being me, I'm on time, or to everyone else, early. This of course means that the girls aren't ready. Luckily some of her mates from home are there and we crack on with a bit of PES. Having taken a bottle of vodka and some lemonade, I am in need of a glass. The only thing they have is one of those shitty small plastic cups. I make do.

I drink quickly at the best of times but with a small glass and not knowing anyone, I may have drunk slightly quicker than normal. Once we stopped playing PES, stuff happened that I don't remember. I remember talking to Jane in the kitchen at some point but can't remember around this incident.

Next thing I know I'm running upstairs towards the toilet. It's there, I can see it, I head towards the door when I can't keep it in any longer and I throw up on the carpet. Shit. Damage control. No-one's here, grab some toilet roll and do as best you can to clean it up.

Ok, so far so good, you're not doing too badly. Then Jane's housemate sees me. Said housemate, I have been informed since, gets angry quickly. She tells me to get out but I'm adamant to clean up, I'm trying to be nice. She continues to tell me to get out, and not wanting a slap, I head downstairs. Next thing I remember I'm outside with Jane who's telling me I shouldn't come out. I naturally agree. I should also mention at this point that it can't be far gone 11pm. Time to go home. I'm accompanied most of the way home but some of Jane's friends but since talking to her about this she's adamant that there was no-one with me. I didn't even know it was possible to hallucinate from alcohol.

From this point on all my memories have been recounted to me by my housemates. I walk in the door and collapse on the sofa. My housemates are playing SingStar. "Fucking ace!" I think and I'm determined to sing along. Unfortunately my angel-like harmonies are disrupted by my dry heaving. One of my housemates tries to get me to go to bed but I'm convinced I'll be better off on the sofa. My memory comes back when I awake at around 5am. I head upstairs and fall back asleep in my bed. I wake up at a time since forgotten but suffering the worst Hangover [capitalised for it was definitely such a bad hangover it deserves to be nounified] I've ever had. It was so bad, I considered going to hospital.

And that is the story of my worst first impression ever.
(Martin1337 was trying and failing to be funny at, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 2:46, Reply)

I thought I was cool
Turned out I was an alcoholic.
( MatJ LOOK, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 2:38, Reply)

Two old men!
Erupting into violence on a quiet Tuesday evening. One wearing a high visability jacket threw the other to the floor and started trying to smash his head in with a bar stool. When he realised that it kept getting caught on the tables either side of him he gave up and started to walk out, at which point the other man stands up and proclaims

"Yow ay very strong am ya?"

At which point the bar staff ask him to leave and come back tomorrow when things are calm.

Wednesbury, the town where even the bar fights are shit!

Oh and once when walking to the local shop I saw a patron run from the pub to his house with a full pint. Nothing beats that just poured taste in your own living room, right?
(Dangerous Disco Trev Isn't my real name, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:51, Reply)

I walked into a bar
ow.

/coat
(mmmm curry doesn't really understand this sig lark, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:38, 1 reply)

Hardest OAP on earth
I have a job in a working men's club right in the centre of town. As a result, we get drunken teenagers coming in on the weekends that regularly piss off the alleged 'working men'.

Now, one of the members of the committee in this club was kind of the local hard bastard aswell. His name was Tommy and he was kind of friendly and would help you out and not really complain too much.

Anyway, one friday, a group of students on the rag-week (do they still call it that? these crazy youngsters nowadays.) came in dressed as various superheroes, one of which was Superman.

As the night went on, Superman got more pissed. Most of his mates had left him, and he was kind of wandering around the different bars trying to look surreptitious (dressed as Superman) and buying more and more of the delicious beverage Stella Artois.

After a while, the bar staff noticed that Superman hadn't been seen in a while, until I turned to look at the CCTV screen - where I saw Tommy wrestling with Superman in the car park. I don't know if Superman pissed anyone off, or if Tommy just fancied a fight.

What I do know is that I cannot look at Superman the same way now I've seen him getting leathered by an old man.
(Hernandez Fiendish probably won't be here until at least, say, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:29, 1 reply)

Random Crazy Crap
I worked in a pub; I encountered many strange individuals among them;

This crazy old lady who used to sidle up to young couples and start talking to them, much to the annoyance of the now, cock-blocked young gentleman. In absence of young couple she would merrily laugh to herself very loudly and talk gibberish.

I saw a girl get her thumb cut off by a very heavy toilet door slamming shut with momentum. (I still shudder thinking of that)

On more than a number of occasions pairs of boxers would be used as toilet paper in the event of the bathroom being out of toilet paper. (Always check there's paper there, people come on). The sight of a bouncer using shitty boxers on a stick to chase people out of the bar was however hilarious.

A guy trying to piss into a blocked urinal while I was in the process of unclogging with a mop. I was like "Dude come on. If you piss on my mop I'll shove it up your ass." although the mop was already covered in piss it's just a courtesy not to piss on another persons tools, or is that just me?

A streaker who didn't think things through, he stripped, ran through the dance floor, then in to the staff area, where not knowing where to go just ended up attempting to hide in the kitchen. It's very hard to hide in a small bar kitchen unless you jump into the fryer. His mates, being dicks, left with his clothes so he happily walked home wearing a promotional Fosters T-shirt and his socks.

The most gruesome however, was a girl who threw up in her own hair, passed out, smacked her head on the toilet and then proceeded to poop herself, now that's one hell of a hangover to deal with in the morning...
(ShizerKaiser, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:24, Reply)

Sex on the beach
Around 10 years ago, I worked with a cracking bunch of people, and we'd sometimes enjoy a drink or three either at lunchtime or after work. One night the "quick pint" has inevitably turned into the many quick pints, it's got to nine-ish, none of us have gone home or eaten yet, we're all fairly fucked.

Someone - and it could have been me, I don't know - suggested Karaoke. Now, like kebabs and stealing traffic cones, this is one activity that should never be undertaken whilst sober, but when drunk seems like a winner.

We all stagger to a nearby pub - it's a week night, and we virtually double the number of drinkers in there when we burst through the doors. The poor sods there were the ones who *would* do Karaoke sober, and probably had banked on getting two or three goes each until our arrival. None of us had ever been in this pub before - it was one of those quiet ones slightly out of the centre of town where you imagine there are about 20 regulars and always have been. God knows what they made of us.

One of my colleagues was called Graham; very intelligent man indeed, and very Scottish. If you didn't know Graham his combination of somewhat belligerent intelligence and of course the accent straight from "Trainspotting" might appear threatening, although he's really a big softie.

I remember at the end of the night him deciding to sing "Sex on the Beach". Graham can't sing, in fact by this stage he could hardly stand. Picture Begbie (without the 'tash) lurching around on stage, staring into the crowd as if he was going to glass any fucker who laughed at him, completely ignoring the lyrics on the prompt, and just growling "Sex on the Beach" every now and then in an incomprehensible Scots brogue. In front of the petrified locals. In Suffolk.

It's a mental image I have never forgotten. What made it worse was the fact that afterwards one of the locals got up to sing and they were really good, so the poor sods had their night invaded by beer monsters. On a Wednesday evening.

Happy days...happy days.
( I_Was_Mordred, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:11, 1 reply)

Childish Drunken Humour
I worked in a small village pub. No-one had the heart to eat the duck as 60 of them were easily visible from the window.

One saturday night two students came in and proceeding to get rat arsed on the tax payers money.

After copious amounts of lager, cider and port (still don't know why they wanted that!) had been consumed they managed to get their hands on the chalk for the boards.

Being the responsible barman I was I turned a blind eye.

Came back later to find they had tampered with the boards. Subtely changing words such as 'potato' with 'vagina' etc.

They were both in tears of laughter, which by this point must have had a higher average alcohol content than a bacardi breezer. Their final effort was to change the soup of the day notice...

served with a warm crusty turd. £35000
(Ginger_Whinger got in the newsletter!! =D, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:07, 1 reply)

Nightclub
I worked in a pretty decent nightclub while a student - less a pulling shop and more about the music, man. However some of the sights I beheld were legendary.

* While washing the glasses at the end of the night I'd picked up a pint glass filled with vomit and had left it until thre end before I cleaned it out. A very very drunk guy came over and asked if he could have a pint of water. "Sure," I said, "just give me a minute til I finish these glasses." A moment later I notice he's necking back the pint of puke.

* We had a big Rn'B/ragga/etc night every month. Not my cup of tea but very popular with the blacks: fair do's, everyone likes different things. What was funny was the way they'd put on a thick pseudo-Jamaican patois when ordering, then quickly revert to Aberdonian when they needed to make themselves understood.

* On our heavy metal night, a homeless man used to come in and glass-collect at the end of the night for a free beer.

* A DJ whose name sounds like Dim Bestwood offered "two hundred dollah" to get a girl to strip off on stage. Then he wanted "all the girls with shaved pussies" dancing on stage. Fuckwit.

* Bondage night was a particular highlight. The girl who came in wearing gaffa tape over her tits...mmmm....

* A one-off Gay Night. I wore a tight white tshirt and made the most tips ever.

* Finding two ounces of grass when clearing up one night.

* Finding ten pills wrapped in a rizla a week later.

* Saying "IT'S SHOT TIME!", heading to the small downstairs bar for a quick Sambuca and coming back reinvigorated.

* Live music from 7-11pm, age 14 and over - usually referred to by staff as "the paedo shift".

* Getting paid to see acts like Grandmaster Flash, Napalm Death, Orbital (just one of them DJing), and Irvine Welsh.

I liked that place.
(McChinaman banned, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 1:06, 5 replies)

my girlfriend says I should trim mine
wait... what does that say again?
(mmmkay, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 0:38, Reply)

Campest barman bar none
Around 1993, my local was The Gloucester Arms. It was a "black pub" in that the landlord was black and so were most of the clientelle. It was a good pub, sparse inside but it had a pool table and table football.

One day a new barman started work. He was the landlord's nephew and was as camp as Larry Grayson being felated by Dale Winton in a tent in a field of tents or something to that effect.

I don't wish to generalise but your average West Indian male isn't that keen on "batty boys". I did notice a few of the customers muttering stuff about batty boys under their breath. They gradually accepted him, well, he was the landlord's nephew so it was put up or fuck off.

What makes him the campest? One evening, he was on his own behind the bar and had decided that the TV was not showing sport that night. Instead, he had on a video of the Osmond Show. He entertained us all by reciting the Osmonds words before they did, he'd learnt the entire show by heart.

Sadly the Gloucester Arms is now called Molly Malone's, another traditional English pub ruined by crap decor, crap beer and crap music.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 0:28, Reply)

Em?
some girls visiting my local took it upon themselves to get on top of the pool table, get their twats out and start touching eachother, not pretend touching either.

As much as i realise that most of you guys would probably think this was absolutley awsome, the word skanks should be featured heavily here. The several vodkas i'd consumed didnt want to stay down long after that. Nobody wants to smell sweaty cunt when their in the pub with their mates trying to get bladdered of an evening.
(fernbrittonsexcessskin will give a shit later, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 0:06, Reply)

Silly little bugger
As the oldest looking in my 14-year old group, I was elected to try and get served in a town-centre pub. If it worked, the others would come in and try their luck.
I stood up straight and strode to the bar, worldly and confident, deepening my voice to order a "Whiskey and Scotch please!"
(foxbean i am a one in ten, Fri 6 Feb 2009, 0:01, 1 reply)

Dealing with problem customers
I spent a couple of happy summers working behind the bar in a Devon resort. Great job in many ways but made all the better when you could take revenge on a problem customer or four.

Back in those days you could smoke in pubs and the bar had a separate children's area where smoking was barred, but as a consequence kids weren't allowed in any of the other sections of the pub.

Now most people saw the sense in this but there was always one family a week who didn't get it. Either they tried to light up in the children's room or they brought the kids into the main bar. Once the error of their ways was explained most backed down.
Some didn't, at which point Pete the landlord would have to be pulled away from sinking pints of Directors with the locals in the main bar - an event that would mean days of slightly sarky comments from him about staff 'not being able to get laid in a brothel' or an extended rant about the poor quality of sperm that had dribbled from my father’s undoubtedly insubstantial penis down the chunk of lard my mother called a thigh – depending on how late into the drinking session he was.

Pete, being a six foot eight ex-Marine with a face that looked like it had been dragged over the rough end of the Falklands* and biceps not dissimilar to relief maps of the Himalayas had something of an advantage in negotiations with customers. Sadly he tended not to see that others not blessed with the same advantages might have a tougher time with it.

So instead of disturbing him we'd be polite but firm and get the families to shift their precious little snowflakes into the children's room where they couldn't run around without their clothes on, play catch with the vintage horse brasses or vomit down customer's legs**.

99% of people were fine with this, or chose to leave, but for the really arsy ones got a special gift. We'd throw in a round of drinks for the kiddies.

Now you might think this was rewarding someone for being a gitwizard but the dilute orange juice the pub, and I understand most pubs at that time, used had an important quality, besides looking more disturbing that Robert Killroy-Silk's skin. It contained ephedra.

Ephedra, sadly banned since 2004, occurs naturally in bitter oranges and used to be added to crap dilute orange juice to give it a tang. However, its effect on small children was a joy to behold, being roughly the equivalent of giving them Kate Moss’ daily dose of nasal supplements while applying slight electric shocks to the motor response centres of their brains.

Before long the little bastards were deep in the midst of a speed crisis, particularly if they’d gulped down the free drink as soon as possible, which they invariably did. They'd find it impossible to keep still, the hands would start flapping and food would be an anathema. Inevitably they became completely uncontrollable and could legitimately be asked to leave the pub.

We’d take side bets as which parent would lose it and hit their snot-covered little charges before the end of the lunch. As an additional bonus we knew the parents faced an afternoon of sheer hell until it wore off.

The moral of the tale, be nice to your bar staff. The wages are shit, the hours are long and we have to take our amusement where we can find it.

* It had
** All real examples
(paxvobiscum, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:57, Reply)

Not limited to, but including
- Couple screwing up against the bar while it was four deep
- Man standing in doorway and calmly pissing into his own beige slacks
- Being waylaid by someone who claimed to be Jimmy Paige (bizarrely enough - not him) who then proceeded to try and fight anyone attempting to leave the bar
- Someone doing the rounds selling bacon. Christ only knows.
- Man who was previously engaged in conversation pulling out penis then demanding to know if anyone thought it was small (N. Scotland)
- Man who was previously engaged in conversation pulling out penis then demanding to know if anyone thought it was small (Richmond, London)
- Thrown out of an Irish Pub for singing "Farewell Spanish Ladies" with some local soak - wife was fucking mortified and didn't speak to me for a day
- Drinking beer from a milk carton served through a steel grate in a Shebeen in what looked like the dressing room from Zulu (Johannesburg) while watching a fat white bloke dancing [non-sexual]
- Had an in-depth explanation of the Rising-Sun over Crucifix tattoo from an old pisshead - apparently it's a jail tat to indicate you're quite partial to a bit of H every now and again
- Same pub; had a thorough description and reccomendation to visit a private porn cinema in Howard St., Glasgow, where apparently "ye need an umbrella there's that much jizz in the air" - lovely


I drink in some classy places
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:56, 1 reply)

Dirty bitch
Bunch of Geordie builders adopted our S.London local - all a bit daft except for Vince, the respected leader of the group. Tone was the runt of the bunch - a really dim twat. When Vince's birthday came round 'the lads' got him a roly-polygram - big wobbly old stripper came to the pub, flashed her tits a bit, sat on his lap etc etc. Great night.

Following week was Tone's birthday and he was convinced they would give him the same treatment. In fact he went on about it all week.

Saturday night they were all in. We all bought Tone a drink - reluctantly - so he was pretty pissed when a portly middle-aged lady walked in wearing a soaking raincoat. She had got caught in a downpour, took shelter with a fruit juice and proceeded to play a fruit machine till the rain stopped.

After about five minutes of play, with Tone leering drunkenly at her and searching for any sign of stripper kit, she set all the lights on the machine off and had no idea what to do. She turned to Tone; "'Scuse me love, any idea what..."

Tone leapt backwards with a pirate-like 'Ahaargh!' that silenced the pub, so that the whole place heard him follow it up with "Yous can take yer sussies and saggy auld tits an fook right off ya dirty bitch!"

She burst into tears and fled the pub. 'Course by then everyone was wiping their eyes.
(foxbean i am a one in ten, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:50, Reply)

Noxious Nigel
My girlfriend's brother Nigel can fart to order - silent but deadly every time. Christ knows what he eats. When a pub's a bit busy we send him in to locate a table where people are nearly finished. He loiters, drops a really rancid one and we wait for said table to vacate. Works every time.
(foxbean i am a one in ten, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:48, Reply)

Karaoke in The Duke...
Third year of Uni, and two of my friends somehow manage to get themselves barred from the college bar (one of them was sick on the jukebox, the other one was sick on the barman when he came to throw them out - they couldn't remember this, the barman told me)

We needed to find another, affordable drinking hole, and fast. On the walk from our third year accommodation to town there was a weird pub that seemed to be left from another era, and now had a car park built around it, leaving it looking like a sort of boozy lighthouse in a sea of concrete. No one ever went there - it just didn't look like a studenty place. Plus, it was a pub in the middle of a car park.

However, it did have a huge great banner proclaiming that they did pitchers (of Harp) for £6.45, so we adopted it.

First couple of visits were Sunday football or early afternoon in the week (hey, we were students), and apart from the fact the landlord was the dirtiest man you'd ever seen and kept his dog in the kitchen, it was welcoming and comfy. Then came karaoke night...

I don't want to sounds like a snob, but even for someone with a familiarity and affection for scummy pubs, this was a rough-looking crowd. I think we were the only young blokes in the room without tattoos and shit eyebrow piercings. The old guys mostly had limbs missing (I'm not exaggerating, I counted). The women don't bear thinking about.

We found ourselves a table in the corner and settled in. It was a brilliant evening. Some terrible singers, some great singers, but a good atmosphere and lots of friendly banter. We all relaxed and started clapping the acts and getting a few rounds in.

There was another table that didn't quite fit in. A couple. We have since christened the guy Pissed Ian, because he was pissed and we heard his girlfriend call him Ian.

From their demeanour we reckoned they hadn't been together too long and this was an early venture out. They weren't a natural couple - he dressed like a teacher, she was a bit Goth. He was a small man, and weighed about half as much as her and clearly couldn't keep pace. She was jolly, but he was legless. As the drinks kept coming, he developed a demonic gleam in his eye, and we could hear the tone of conversation change from relaxed chat to her desperate pleading.

Looking as determined as only a drunk man on a frst date can, Ian pulls himself to his feet and makes his way to the karaoke set-up. He has words with the operator, who looks like he's not sure whether to laugh or worry, and takes the mic.

Prince: 'When Doves Cry'

Fucking hell. It was the most rapt audience I've ever seen. Some people were puzzled. Many were just looking around to see how others reacted. After a few moments, everyone just sat there and listened.

He was great. Absolutely fantastic. Could barely stand but he belted it out like a true showman. When he finished, it brought the house down. A standing ovation in a pub!

Ian lopes back across the room to his girl, with a look on his face that says ‘Oh yeah – I told you I was a performer’. At which point she punches him so hard he goes down like a sack of shit, and is woken by the landlord with the contents of the ice-bucket.

There's no impressing some girls.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:46, Reply)

no irish please!
the bricklayers arms in luton, one of the last truly 'english' working mans pub... and they are so proud to be english working class that its £12 for a pint of guiness on st.paddys day to 'keep the fucking paddies out' classic, im never gonna stop drinkin there!!!!
(gingerbollocks 'happy and content' since, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:35, 11 replies)

New Years Eve
My bird, all of my mates and everyone worth knowing ever were in the big pub in town and because I hadn't met up earlier when I should have, I didn't have a ticket to get in.

So I'm outside arguing with the bouncers: "my bird's in there", "So are my mates", "They've got a ticket for me", Can't I just go in and find them", etc, etc. Bouncers aren't having it.

I was just about to give up when one of the bouncers asked "Are you a police officer?".

In the space of about a nano-second I thought "Why's he asking me that? Must be a reason. Maybe he'll let me in if I say yes".

So I said "Yes".

"Sorry Sir, I didn't realise" he said and stood aside for me to enter.

WTF?/Result.
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:18, Reply)

Definitely wasn't me...
Me and a few friends took the obligatory trip down to Brighton for my 21st a few years ago...

Friday night, all is well, royally pissed, takeaway, wonder why none of us are having any joy in the lesbian pub, home to sleep.

Saturday morning, and most have had to head home, but three of us stuck around for a session. 11am, cooked breakfast, first pint of the day. Sorted.

I remember nothing until 4am on the Sunday, standing outside a club, eating chips and talking to a few random revellers. One of them was a plumber, and he said he'd fix my boiler. He never did.

So anyway, one of my mates has been leaning up against a barrier protecting some roadworks, when it all topples over. No big drama there, but at least 40 people turned round to have a peek. A tad unnerved by all this unwarranted attention, said mate stands up, turns round, and sprints down an alleyway round the corner.
How we laughed.
"Don't worry," says my new found plumber friend, "it's a dead end, he'll be back in a second.
Too pissed to go and see if he was ok, we finished our chips. 20 minutes later, he's still not back, so we go to have a look, thoroughly expecting to find him hiding in a bin. But sure enough, alleyway is deserted, and there's a 7 foot high brick wall at the end of it.

We're a bit puzzled by all this, so we decide to split up, have a look about, and if we can't find him, meet back at the hotel and wait for him (he hasn't got a key).

About 6am, I give up and head back. We were staying in twin rooms, and we didn't know which room he'd go to, so we took a room each, and got some kip.

Check out time rolls around, and he's not in my room, so i presume he must be in mate's room.

He's not.

Shit.

Right, what do we do?

Pub. Definitely.

Anyway, we give the police a call, who can't tell us anything, and we give the hospital a call, ditto. Pondering our next move, my phone starts ringing:
"Hello, my name's whateverface, I'm (mate's name)'s solicitor, he's been arrested for burglary. Bollocks.

One panicked cab journey to a hove holding jail later, we hear the full story:

When he ran down the alleyway, he was so frightened that he scaled the wall and started running across the rooftops. Seeing something he recognised, he neglected to look where he was treading, and went straight through a skylight. Into a hotel kitchen. Hotel closed, he makes a dash for the back door, locked. Front door, locked. However, front door has a small window in it, so he decides it'll be a good idea to punch through it, and, result, there's a bloke walking past!
"Oi, mate, I'll give you £50 if you let me out of here!"
One petrified pedestrians frantic 999 call later, he's promptly nicked, and taken to the hospital for x-rays on his wrist.

They had to let him go in the end, as there were no fingerprints anywhere, but he was told in no uncertain terms to "never fucking come back to Brighton."

The best thing about it were his x-rays (now on his mantelpiece). Because they didn't trust him to not do a runner (and they were x-raying his wrists) he had to have them done with handcuffs on. I might ask him for a copy.

I know this isn't strictly about pubs, but we were in them all day, so there.

A thousand apologies for length.
(kccat does NOT look like Joe 90, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:15, Reply)

Oirish
I knew that identikit Oirish pubs of the New York St. Paddy's Day Parade persuasion could be found all over Europe. Didn't realise til last year that they'd made it to China too. Had a fine pint of Guinness in Chengdu, Szechuan Province, made all the finer after a month of drinking very cheap, very warm lager.

Don't normally get bored-looking Russian hookers dancing with fat Chinese businessmen in your local O'Neills though. At least not in my local O'Neills.
(Concrete Cow, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:13, 1 reply)

Bouncer
I was sitting in the pub garden one summer evening, 17 years old, drinking a can which I had bought at the off licence and smoking a joint. Due to some recent "bovver", the pub had newly employed a bouncer who wandered over to me...

Bouncer: "Get out!"
Me: "Why?"
Bouncer: "You're under age"
Me: "I'm 18"
Bouncer "Oh"

*brief pause*

Bouncer: "Get out!"
Me: "Why?"
Brouncer (pointing to the can next to me): "Bringing your own drink here"
Me: "It's not mine"
Bouncer "Oh"

*brief pause*

Bouncer: "Get out!"
Me: "Why?"
Bouncer (pointing at my joint): "That"
Me: "It's just a roll-up"
Bouncer "Oh"

He walked away!
( stopmeandslapme Cometh the hour, cometh your mum, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:10, 3 replies)

Oh the nights I had here:
manchesterbars.wordpress.com/2006/11/06/manchester-press-club/

I used to be a member in 1995-6 Back in those days pubs closed at 11 something. This place was open until 6.

Going home on the first bus of the morning. What a way to be.

Anyone else been there?
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:07, 4 replies)

I was called a "hedge monkey" once
twas in a pub in deepest darkest devon -
a one-watering-hole village.

I had long hair and wore the clothes of someone going through a trippy-hippy phase.

they could have paid me no higher compliment.
( nightbuffalo needs more duct tape, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 23:03, Reply)

I used to go to uni in Edinburgh
and on one of my first days strolling around what was to be my new home city, I saw a man come barrelling out of a pub -- to land face first in the gutter.

Where he promptly puked his ring up.

As he's doing this, a head sticks out of the pub doors, disappears, and then reappears as the chap comes out, bringing another fella with him.

Clearly they know the guy, ask him if he's alright, and then scoop him up by the armpit so he's stood, slung between the two of them, head drooping.

Do they call a cab? Get him on the bus? Perhaps ring his missus.

Nope. They turn and walk him, their heads high, right back into the bar.

Now that is dedication.
(greenycrimson I stole the from pyschotherapist, Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:56, 4 replies)

Now I share my birthday with a friend
This friend is from Northern Ireland and unlike any stereotype he is a complete piss head.

A few years back for our birthday we went out for a meal with a load of other friends and wound up in a pub.
My friend is three sheets to the wind all ready by this point. When we get into the pub he shouts in his fine Enniskillen accent. 'Now which one of you shites wants a drink'?

A pissed fella at the bar spins round and in an equally fine accent shouts 'Are you taking the fooking piss?'and starts looking like he's spoiling for a fight. My friend then spends the next hour calming the man down with stories from the Old Country.

The man ends up joining us and we are all declared Oirish for the night and finish then night singing songs from 'back home'.

Not many laughs but first page.

*edit* cock, not even that.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Thu 5 Feb 2009, 22:54, 1 reply)