Tales From the Pub # 4
I am In The Pub.
It is very late, close to closing. They all come in.
It is a grim pub. But to these late-comers it is the fucking Groucho.
Fifties. Short. As wide as tall. Suit (probably the only one they own). White hair. Chests like barrels, bellys like water-bombs. Sometimes a tie. To be quickly loosened to reveal an awful lot of gold. Not Elizabeth Duke mind. Worse. Tacky before tacky was acceptable. Not that it is.
Appear to have a slightly more glamourous version of John Prescott’s wife on their arm. Proudly.
Orange. ‘Oh we’ve been abroad’. You haven’t. Dressed the way a fourty-year-old would if they were trying to be ‘with it’. But they’re not fourty. And even the fourty-year-olds get it wrong.
Whatever.
I think nothing of these people. They are horrible men, who have worked hard their whole lives to reach this nirvana. I know they are happy with it. Their horrible wives are also probably happy with their pretend glamour. A late Saturday night drink in a shit pub with dubious opening-hours to be ignored by their husbands after they have spent two hours getting-themselves-up like a nineteen-year-old-popstar that no-one will hear of two weeks from now. And looking FUCKING RIDICULOUS.
I ignore this.
I think about, you know, my life and that. I do not advise anyone to do this. The conclusions are never good. Especially in a place where access to booze is very easy.
But I think anyway. It becomes actually quite unpleasant so I stop. Just like that. I can do it. It is one of my few skills. I can turn the ‘normal’ (ie :you know, feelings and that) stuff off like a switch.
Bottles of what indeed? The security services have ground the country to a halt. On the basis of providing me with another excuse for a shitty story from God knows how long ago that isn’t even very good but that MAKES SENSE NOW.
I finish my drink and leave.
It is very late, close to closing. They all come in.
It is a grim pub. But to these late-comers it is the fucking Groucho.
Fifties. Short. As wide as tall. Suit (probably the only one they own). White hair. Chests like barrels, bellys like water-bombs. Sometimes a tie. To be quickly loosened to reveal an awful lot of gold. Not Elizabeth Duke mind. Worse. Tacky before tacky was acceptable. Not that it is.
Appear to have a slightly more glamourous version of John Prescott’s wife on their arm. Proudly.
Orange. ‘Oh we’ve been abroad’. You haven’t. Dressed the way a fourty-year-old would if they were trying to be ‘with it’. But they’re not fourty. And even the fourty-year-olds get it wrong.
Whatever.
I think nothing of these people. They are horrible men, who have worked hard their whole lives to reach this nirvana. I know they are happy with it. Their horrible wives are also probably happy with their pretend glamour. A late Saturday night drink in a shit pub with dubious opening-hours to be ignored by their husbands after they have spent two hours getting-themselves-up like a nineteen-year-old-popstar that no-one will hear of two weeks from now. And looking FUCKING RIDICULOUS.
I ignore this.
I think about, you know, my life and that. I do not advise anyone to do this. The conclusions are never good. Especially in a place where access to booze is very easy.
But I think anyway. It becomes actually quite unpleasant so I stop. Just like that. I can do it. It is one of my few skills. I can turn the ‘normal’ (ie :you know, feelings and that) stuff off like a switch.
Bottles of what indeed? The security services have ground the country to a halt. On the basis of providing me with another excuse for a shitty story from God knows how long ago that isn’t even very good but that MAKES SENSE NOW.
I finish my drink and leave.
posted by Tired Dad at
3:37 am
16 Comments:
DO they all resemble that orange antique bargin hunt bloke who's name escapes me now. Dicky DickinsonDickhead or something.
The legendary David Dickinson she means. The orange love god himself.
DD: They do.
A: Thanks. No, I'm not.
sory ur not
Look after yourself TD.xx.
This sort of human likes to travel abroad to call folks 'dirty bastards' whilst swilling down cheap lager and fried egg platters.
You've met my other family yhen?
Puppy, Sabrina: Thanks and that.
RD: Lager for breakfast in Spain. Because they can. Twats.
Dinners: I'm sure all these people are wonderful.
Mutton dressed as Joan Collins.
I LOVE david dickinson..he's so completely clueless about how silly he looks ..he's the regis philbin of the uk.
C: Erm. You get British telly? Oh shit. That's why no-one takes us seriously anymore. We do have some good telly you know. Like. Erm. Oh shit. We've become you! And all our good telly drama is American imports! (nb. this is true, and not the slightest satirical).
Stuart: I'm sure you are the very image of youthful beauty yourself. I observe. Is all. I think it's rather funny. I do not consider myself to be above anybody. Far from it. And much as I may be percieved to mock, I rather love these people. SO FUCK OFF.
The english versions are always so much better..
remember Couplings ? I ADORED that show..( aww Steve )
The American version sucked ass.
But I can live without ya'lls soap operas..
Ta for stickin' up for us muttons TD
Dinners: To the point as ever.
I spend all day in an office building we share with Rolls Royce, Prince's Trust and Sky News. Today I had a lengthy conversation with one of the Chief Execs at Powergen. This is routine. And it means FUCK ALL to me. I work, I go home. On occasion (more now than I should but at least I am not AT HOME)I go to the pub.
And do you know what?
They may not have a degree. They may not have A-levels. They might have jobs that do not involve speaking to 'important' people. They may even work on a production line. Fucking fair play to them. Oh dear. They don't own a suit. I own several. Most from major design houses. That I then pay a tailor to alter so they're 'just right'.
What does that mean? FUCK ALL.
I can talk shit and get away with it. That's all.
There are many who cannot. They, as a fall-back, do honest work for a living. And they are brilliant. And if their idea of fun is putting on a twenty-year old suit, drenching themselves in Brut and getting their chest-hair out in a shitty pub, then so be it.
Who am I to talk? I'm there as well.
Rant over.
Have you considered a sideline in airport security? It seems you know more than the PR people who are banning paperbacks.
C: I don't actually watch TV myself. But I understand the State's version of the Office is OK. Is this true?
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