That's Me In the Corner

So yes, that is me sat over there in the corner of the King’s Head. Beard, glasses, dishevelled and perpetually perturbed (and yes, those are scampi fries in my beard). And no, I never thought I’d see the day, and yes, I’m just as surprised about it as you, and no I don’t have an issue of some kind with Roxy. I think she’s done a great job and couldn’t have been friendlier and more accommodating to the regulars. But, nevertheless, here we find ourselves. Wherever that may be. And the Taps? Well the Taps remains…well I guess I’m not entirely sure what the Taps remains. I mean I still drink there on a Tuesday night, and should I be out on a Sunday, Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday then that’s where I’ll be drinking. It’s still home. The Perryman is still the Perryman, and there’s still nowhere I’d rather be on a weekday evening. It’s just…well, it’s just that the world went and changed on me. Went and got young. Got young and loud, and I went and got old and tired. I just can’t deal with the noise, with the crowds, with the 15 minute walk to the toilets and back on a Saturday night. I just can’t deal with the…well…the youthfulness of it. I’ve always felt that the Perryman was insulation enough against the educationally subnormal scum who often frequent the Taps at the weekend, but it’s just not enough anymore. Well though the old girl’s served us, The Perryman wanes and her protective embrace weakens until now, at last, I just can’t bear looking at them, listening to them; watching them do their glass eyed, mouth breathing, slack jawed, nightly Jeremy Kyle dance of missed child support payments and missing links. And so, as I bid farewell to the Taps at the weekends, a few thoughts: - Look, ladies, greeting your female friends with hysterical, piercing, dog whistle, five decibel screeches isn’t an acceptable way of communicating that you haven’t seen them for two days (not counting the 47 texts you sent one another while you were getting ready to go out….and oh look you still managed to come out wearing the same thing: psychedelic orange tan). You make me want to kill myself. - Fellas, you and your twenty mates coming in and standing right in front of the door is not a sensible place to stand on a Saturday night. I just don’t believe you’re really that stupid. It’s impossible. You would have choked to death on urinal cakes by now if it were. - No, I’m not impressed that you can drink four Jaeger bombs in a row. I’m really not. I’m more impressed that you’ve somehow been able to negotiate whatever meagre skills you have into paid employment. Who says there’s a recession on? - Oh, your haircut cost £75, your jumper cost £125 and your trainers £150? Wow, do you know what that makes you? That’s right, a fucking retard. Now fuck off and die.