A British Pub
by Stephen Philip Druce
I have never
been a great fan of pubs, but a friend
recommended 'The Dead Stoat'.
Shit hole. A
yucky yellow decor and the bar looked like a
dungeon slumped in corpses.
The old beams
were so low I had to belly dance under them on a
carpet so stained it was made of 50% actual stain.
I popped into
the snug - a small private area of the pub,
specifically built for patrons that like to go
out for the evening and hide away from people -
thats pretty logical. I really enjoyed
socialising in a tiny room with these manic
depressive, tortoise-like characters that
revelled in an atmosphere of morose abject misery
- very uplifting.
In the main
bar a small group of old guys invited me to join
them in a game of dominoes.
declined - "sorry fellas, I haven't lost my
mind to the point of getting aroused at the sight
of grown adults placing plastic oblong shapes
with dots on, next to some more plastic oblong
shapes with dots on".
snacks were available - smoked salmon?, prawn
cocktail?, chicken l'orange?. Not quite - pork
scratchings. Yes a bag of mishapen chunks of pig
skin covered in salty shit. How about that for an
appetizer?. On second thoughts - no, you can't
trust a hairy snack.
oppurtunity for romance was a drunken dance with
the landlady, who had two chins, one shoelace,
and a tattoo of a vacuum cleaner on her face. She
was so rough I couldn't tell the front of her
from the back.