So that’s it. My Master’s Degree is finished. Goodbye student life. Real world… I’m ba-ack!
Of course, once all my work was handed in there was only one place to go. That’s right; the battle-cruiser. Once the hub of local communities, the public house is a dying breed. Thanks to the same corporate money-grabbing that has infected this country’s high streets and nightclubs, rather than warm welcomes, local ales and ciders and proper pub-grub, you tend to get cold stares, mass-produced fizzy-piss and microwaved roast dinners. Thank you, JD Wetherspoon.
Just think, there’s a generation of drinkers that have no idea what a meat raffle is. For shame, Great Britain. For shame.
But who frequents these places, Tom? Well…
Like the coffee shop regular, this fella has his own spot at the bar. After arriving and taking their position, they will defend it like their very own Rourke’s Drift. Forgetting all notions of personal space for the evening, they will stare into their pint while people squeeze uncomfortably close them in order to get to the bar.
Their face will be ruddy and weather-beaten, with broken capillaries across their cheeks and nose that they think says ‘I am experienced and full of sage (if slurred) wisdom.’ What it actually tells people is ‘I’ve spent most of my adult life drunk.’
While the unmistakable air of resignation is there, they are young enough to have a glimmer of hope in their eye but they have this weird idea that knowing all The residents, acting aggressive and being on first name terms with the bar staff makes them ‘somebody’. Fair point- it does. But what they fail to realise is the ‘somebody’ it makes them is ‘somebody the other drinkers would like to avoid.’
The barmaid that thinks she’s hot
Tends to be ‘rosy-cheeked’ (you know the type- they describe themselves as ‘bubbly’), with hair in desperate need of conditioning, will call everyone ‘hun’ or ‘darling’ and does that creepy stroke-your-hand-as-I-pass-you-your-change thing that all sex pests in customer service roles seem to do.
They valiantly deny the existence of ‘beer-goggles’, taking every lecherous comment or look from their increasingly inebriated clientele as a sure sign that they are ‘a smoking hotty’. Hmm…
The pool jobsworth
A bit shit at pool but fancy unwinding after a day’s work with a pint and a couple of frames? Not with this dick-hole around. Each shot must be played to the latest version of the official rules and any violation of said rules will bring the game to a halt while they reposition the balls and explain AGAIN about how the regulations state that the cue-ball must hit two cushions before… Fuck you, no-one cares.
The non-smoker that insists on sitting in the smoking area
And then complains about people smoking around them… Fuck you, too.