Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Breathing Difficulties Part 1.

A man has me by the throat.

I am unconcerned. Oddly. He begins to squeeze and I feel his fingernails closing around my windpipe.

I become slightly concerned. What with not being able to breath and that.

It is was many years ago. When I ran pubs for a living. I didn’t think then that ‘blogging’ about the incident in the future would highlight the lie in a previous post about not hitting someone since I was a teenager when this obviously occurred in my twenties. Grrr.

Anyway.

The not breathing thing is becoming something of a chore and without really thinking I reach back and land this gentleman a good one straight on the cheekbone and he briefly disappears from sight.

I am eight stone and five foot eight. I am pleased with myself. I’ve floored someone. I haven’t done this since high school.

Some days previously. Myself and colleague invite favourite customers from our previous Public House to our current Public House in nearby town. They attend.

‘Wow this is a bit rough.’

Us: No no. We’ll sort it. It’ll be quite nice soon.

I had to remove needles with rubber gloves from the toilets every morning because the cleaners, somewhat understandably, weren’t too keen.

So they were all there. And I smack a guy in the face. In front of them. They know me as chatty friendly guy. Hmm.

Within seconds tables are flying. Recently twatted gentleman gets up with alarming ease. Police are summoned. Upon their arrival half the clientele vanish. As they are all Wanted.

I am nicked. And carted-off to the nearest Police Station. For assault. I smacked someone who was attempting to choke me to death over a brief dispute over the current price of a pint of Stella Artois.

It is decided that I am not a major menace to society and am DRIVEN (they gave good service in those days) back to my Pub.

Assorted previous customers of Quite Nice Pub In Which No-One Died Or Tried To Kill Anyone Or Inject Heroin Ever are leaving never to return.

I don’t really blame them. ‘Good luck’ they say.

Oddly they never returned.

And we weren’t there long..

12 Comments:

Blogger Angela-la-la said...

I call it posh when even the needles wear rubber gloves.

11:03 pm  
Blogger Clarissa said...

You stella'd him.

11:11 pm  
Blogger Misssy M said...

The bods at Stella Artois's ad agency would like to purchase your story for the next in their series of "Stella Artois: reassuringly expensive" ad campaign.

8:47 am  
Blogger me said...

I felt a twinge in the knuckles of my right hand, momentarily

7:00 pm  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Ang: Oh very good.

Clarissa: Christ he got up pquickly though. Don't get me wrong. These situations occur very rarely for me and they scare me shitless each time.

missy: The Stella corporation's 'percieved' consumer and 'actual' ones are so far apart you'd need a space probe to cover the distance.

me: Now you're just being silly.

8:03 pm  
Blogger FOUR DINNERS said...

Ahhh memories. The Warren in Hounslow circa '78, the Kings...oh bollocks.

Great days.

An irate hubby once came into The Warren with a hatchet to chop a mate of mine who'd bonked his wife. My mate said "Oh look the chippy wants a go now" and continued to drink as the hatchet came down.

How are we alive?

11:12 pm  
Blogger Mr Farty said...

I'm still laughing at Monkeyface. Brilliant.

11:32 pm  
Blogger mr_glide said...

...and by the trail of destruction ye shall know the tired dad. Not caused by you, per se. Just the sort that seems to follow you around.

I vote the post about the teenage girls in the shop to be the definitive TD fable. Hideously close to the truth of my waking existence.

12:22 pm  
Blogger DJ Kirkby said...

Seems a hard way to make a living. I am assuming you were not distraught when an oppourtunity to change careers came your way?

9:52 am  
Blogger Tired Dad said...

Dinners: I don't know.

farty: That was WEEKS ago. It can't be THAT funny.

M_G: It's never me. And what the fuck is this now? I 'heart' Tired Dad circa some weeks ago? This is neither Channel 4 or BBC2 and it is neither Friday nor Saturday night. Fuck's sake.

Kirby: I was actually rather sad to leave it all. But running a pub is essentially hanging around with your mates, getting drunk, and doing it all again the next day. If you're any good at it. And making sure all your customers become your mate. It's a great laugh. But not worth dying for. And most good Landlords do.

6:35 pm  
Blogger londongirl said...

Sounds like a lovely pub.

What was its name again?

11:35 am  
Blogger Mr Farty said...

TD: Trust me. It is.

When's Part 2 scheduled for? I've mislaid my Radio Times.

9:12 pm  

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