The pub

The pub was a shit-hole, the carpet was sticky with years of spilled beer and guts, the dark brown walls had not seen a lick of paint since the war, and the windows were thick with the residue of a million roll-ups. Most of the time time there would be just these three or four old men in there, trying to pour their own cheap lager from cans in bags under the table into their glasses without being spotted by the bar staff. Sometimes people would go there to buy cheap frozen meat from the local junkies, who would steal it from the Iceland store on the corner. It was a real shit-hole

The only time it was any different was on match days. Then, for two or three hours before and after a game, the place was heaving with raucous singing, jumping red shirts and flying beer. We would meet there early and make up chants to piss the away fans off. Deano was unofficially in charge. He was a top London chef and had a scar on his cheek the exact same shape and size as the lip of a broken pint glass.

The barmaid, Caz, had the most fantastic tits you ever saw, they were like two giant blimps bouncing against each other in the skies above the stadium. Her top was always covered in stains, she never seemed to brush her teeth, and she had a laugh that sounded like a dog being strangled. She lived halfway between the pub and the stadium; we were together for about a year. Her apartment  was even more of a dump than the pub, and her six kids were a nightmare, in and out of juvie like a Spurs fan in his boyfriends ass. She used to make this thing she called ‘breakfast’, which involved sticking eggs, bacon, beans and a slice of bread on a plate and bunging it in the microwave for ten minutes. I never once saw her brush her teeth, but she had fantastic tits and lived halfway between the pub and  the stadium.

When she caught me shagging her sister by the dumpster behind the pub, she burnt all the pictures of my little boy, who had died five years previously, smashed my guitar and had her brother put a price on my head. Two years later, the team moved to a new stadium, and the pub lost all its business and had to close down. Its an apartment building now. It was a good thing really, that pub was a shit-hole.

10 responses

  1. Pingback: The British Invasion | Budget Nomad

  2. Again I say, “stupid bint!”

    12.04.23 at 16.08

  3. more please.

    12.04.21 at 15.44

    • on its way jenni

      12.04.21 at 16.06

  4. I have several shit-hole pictures in my head right now. One of them has bouncing tits.

    12.04.21 at 15.10

    • thanks for sharing 🙂

      12.04.21 at 16.07

  5. Rob

    This tale has a Hardyesque “the only result is misery” quality to it.
    thanks for sharing
    p.s. If she’d broken my guitar, I would have killed her.

    12.04.21 at 14.46

    • thanks big man – i was going for that kind of feel, so its good to know it worked.

      12.04.21 at 14.48

  6. I think I wanted to wrap my fingers around her neck ….u know…. the one above her glorious tits…..for burning those pictures!

    12.04.21 at 14.12

    • thank you, that’s sweet of you

      12.04.21 at 14.19

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