My friends and I love to socialise, and due to having busy jobs and lifestyles, don’t meet up as much as we would like. But we try to arrange a meeting once a week to go over our lives, jobs and relationships with a fine tooth comb, and open our situations up to honest comment. So when one can’t attend, it is a serious issue. One friend took a job as a bar-person, working in her local pub, so we decided that if she could come to us, we would up sticks and go to her. Fair enough.
But the pub she worked in isn’t your normal local haunt. Oh no. It’s a gathering place for all the undesirables, chavs and lay-abouts of our fine town. I’m normally perfectly confident, and can walk around town by myself (a mean feat at 24!) but this pub reduces me to my fifteen year old “I shouldn’t be here and these men are creepy” self.
The pub is decorated like something you would envisage seeing on Bottom. The tables are sticky, the loos resemble something you may see in an inner city public restroom, and it’s always freezing. Even in the summer. You have to part a sea of chavs smoking outside to get to the door, but at least we can count our lucky stars for the smoking ban, which sees them all flock outside to spark up, like a mass exodus to Mecca.
Then I come to my favourite. The sewage wine. Unless you are willing to pay double figures for a small glass of wine, your only option is the sewage. Its diversity is a marvel, it comes in red sewage, white sewage, or the particularly delectable, rose sewage. Mmmmmm.
After a few months of my dear friend working there, feeling began to wane for meeting at this particular drinkery. Talk of “really? Must we?” and “of course ill come out, anywhere but the bridge!” became regular comments, and slowly the visits subsided. My friend then decided she was going to up sticks and move to Australia, so a leaving part was arranged. We bit the bullet and ventured into the pub, coats firmly on to defend us against the winter chill that we always experienced. I was ill, Ellie was hungover, but the rest were prepared to give it a fair shot and push away any prejudice. Boyfriend went to the loo, and returned to inform us that, not only had someone pulled the loo seat clean off the loo, but they had then defecated on it. In the middle of the floor. Poor Ellie didn’t believe this to be true, determined as she was to give the pub one last fair chance. So a photo was taken. The poor girl retched and decided it was time to go home.
And thus, we all need to make ourselves very clear. WE. ARE. NOT. GOING. AGAIN. EVER!!!!