Thursday, December 15, 2005
The Case Of The Local Pub And A Most Perplexing Mystery.
My local is one of the oldest pubs in the town. Nestled down a bank by the railway lines off the beaten track, it has long had a reputation as a 'rough' pub housing the white underbelly of the towns rougher element. But in reality this is far from the truth. Originally a coaching stop in the eighteenth century and now located along side the railway station it has always benefited from a good passsing trade.
The unimpressive enterance conceals a rustic, drinkers haven and with Sky Tv and most importantly some of the cheapest beer in town, its rarely empty.
The landlord, Chris, is a large, vociferous, grizzly man. His large gnarled featured face props up a thatch of brown disheveled hair. A straight talking, 'take no shit' man Chris does not approve of the new licensing hours.
I'd rather you all fuck off an hour earlier' he fondly reminds us.
Like most smokey ale houses there is a regular and dependable crowd of regulars. As with Norm from Cheers, you know where they sit and when they'll be in.
Sean, 35, one of the weekend crowd confessed to me, in a very matter of fact manner, that the previous weekend his wife and he had left the pub as normal and experienced an unusual incident.
It had been a normal Sunday evening, the couple hadn't left the pub any earlier or any later than was usual.
"we don't know which one of us it was" Sean explained nonchalantly, "but one of us pissed the bed on Sunday night and we don't know which one of us it was."
This gave birth to an interesting and even more mind expanding discussion as his wife Gaynor had over heard the remark.
"It was you you dirty little bastard" his wife announced in earshot of at least ten people. Gaynor, a blonde haired and imposing figure, renowned for her sharp tongue is not a person to tangle with. In their relationship you would say that Gaynor definitely 'wears the trousers'.
"My back was fucking soaked. I cant piss up my own back so that proves it was you, you dick head!"
"Which side of the bed was wettest?" Asked one, now enthralled, local (who had found himself drawn to the conversation through macarbe fascination), hoping to sleuth his way to a solution.
"My side" Gaynor volunteered almost triumphantly "so that proves it must have been him pissing over me."
Sean, a wily bespectacled character rose proudly to this new challenge and handled himself with the quiet dignity of a top London Barrister. "Fuck off!" He boldly opened with (i imagined him stretching onto tip toes with his chin held high, chest out and hands confidently clutching the lapels of a clerical jacket.)
"It just means you pissed yourself on your side and rolled about in it all night you dirty bitch. Anyway i always get the blame" Added Sean defensively fixing an icy glare on his wife, indicating to the pub at large that this was no one off occurrence.
My local is one of the oldest pubs in the town. Nestled down a bank by the railway lines off the beaten track, it has long had a reputation as a 'rough' pub housing the white underbelly of the towns rougher element. But in reality this is far from the truth. Originally a coaching stop in the eighteenth century and now located along side the railway station it has always benefited from a good passsing trade.
The unimpressive enterance conceals a rustic, drinkers haven and with Sky Tv and most importantly some of the cheapest beer in town, its rarely empty.
The landlord, Chris, is a large, vociferous, grizzly man. His large gnarled featured face props up a thatch of brown disheveled hair. A straight talking, 'take no shit' man Chris does not approve of the new licensing hours.
I'd rather you all fuck off an hour earlier' he fondly reminds us.
Like most smokey ale houses there is a regular and dependable crowd of regulars. As with Norm from Cheers, you know where they sit and when they'll be in.
Sean, 35, one of the weekend crowd confessed to me, in a very matter of fact manner, that the previous weekend his wife and he had left the pub as normal and experienced an unusual incident.
It had been a normal Sunday evening, the couple hadn't left the pub any earlier or any later than was usual.
"we don't know which one of us it was" Sean explained nonchalantly, "but one of us pissed the bed on Sunday night and we don't know which one of us it was."
This gave birth to an interesting and even more mind expanding discussion as his wife Gaynor had over heard the remark.
"It was you you dirty little bastard" his wife announced in earshot of at least ten people. Gaynor, a blonde haired and imposing figure, renowned for her sharp tongue is not a person to tangle with. In their relationship you would say that Gaynor definitely 'wears the trousers'.
"My back was fucking soaked. I cant piss up my own back so that proves it was you, you dick head!"
"Which side of the bed was wettest?" Asked one, now enthralled, local (who had found himself drawn to the conversation through macarbe fascination), hoping to sleuth his way to a solution.
"My side" Gaynor volunteered almost triumphantly "so that proves it must have been him pissing over me."
Sean, a wily bespectacled character rose proudly to this new challenge and handled himself with the quiet dignity of a top London Barrister. "Fuck off!" He boldly opened with (i imagined him stretching onto tip toes with his chin held high, chest out and hands confidently clutching the lapels of a clerical jacket.)
"It just means you pissed yourself on your side and rolled about in it all night you dirty bitch. Anyway i always get the blame" Added Sean defensively fixing an icy glare on his wife, indicating to the pub at large that this was no one off occurrence.
# posted by aworthlessexistence @ 1:11 AM 
