Jimbo gave me a shout. Will we go into town for a pint?
Town? Are you mad? It’ll be full of aggressive drunk fuckers.
Ah no. We won’t bother with all that. We’ll just have a couple in our pub of choice.
All right, so.
I made preparations. In an obscure cupboard, I found a large brown paper bag. In another hole I found a rope.
The bus was easy. We got on and paid the money. Nobody noticed a man carrying a large brown-paper bag. Nobody said anything, and if the CCTV picked it up, well I haven’t heard.
Over the past year, I have had experience of many different types of bar-person. Those in my first two pubs of choice have been almost without exception good and nice and attentive and fast with the service and generally all-round not bad at all at all. Those in other places have been cunts.
We went to one of our pubs-of-choice. The always-nice bar-person came to talk to us, served us our pints and stayed for a chat. Lovely. So did another bar-person and yet another. Because it’s Christmas, we bought all of them a drink, and what’s truly wonderful is the fact that they were, every one of them, surprised and grateful.
OK, Jimbo, I said. We need to visit the other fuckers.
And so it came to pass that we visited a pub where the bar-person treated us like shite during the year.
Two pints there, Boss.
The surly, untutored gobshite barely acknowledged us as he pulled the pints. Is it only me, or does everybody find that barmen who wear ties are ignorant fuckers?
Here! he eventually muttered.
Thanks, I said. I got you this for being such a great bar-person.
So saying, I placed a brown paper parcel on the counter. He stared at me in suspicion.
What the fuck is this?
Open it, I replied. It’s from us.
Thanks very much, he began to fiddle with the bag, and as he did so, the bag began to tremble on the counter where it lay, and noises began to come out of it. Terrible noises.
What’s this, lads?
He leaned in close and pulled open the mouth of the bag, and as he did so, Satan’s Hound leapt out and ripped away a piece of his forehead.
I see you’re busy, chuckled Jimbo as the Hound savaged him on the floor. Well, bad news. No tip for you this Christmas.
This looks like a good way to deal with bad bar-men.