Pub review
They say:
"I miss Darren..." --the regulars
1/5
I say:
I could die. I am dying. Withering really. Or still living despite Atlas having stopped the earth and carefully placed it down before grabbing my ankle, digging his fingers in under my collarbone and tearing me in half. Twenty years of fetid abuse and viscera explode from a ravenous tear that unzips my belly. The smell is overpowering but still not as bad as the odour from the BBQ sauce on whatever the fuck the guy next to me has ordered from the wipe-clean menu. Darren finds it amusing but then he would wouldn't he. A smiling A3 size picture of him hangs above the fireplace. God knows why. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he was killed. In this bar. The picture was taken the night of his murder, pre-mortem. Ordinarily the regulars could put up with the utterly generic nature of their lives, their loves and their pub but Darren's decision to pair a shirt with a particularly small cuban collar and a tie in a chunky windsor knot was an affront. The two faux studs on said collar bored into their souls and told them that those halcyon days of stiff collars and upper lips, of honest graft for honest pay, FA cup finals and polio, the sheer-imperial-fucking-splendour of those uplands was never further away than they were right now. Darren hadn't clocked the simmering hostility of the atmosphere as he recorded a video for tik-tok. They were promised respect not irrelevance and the chance to hold their head high again unburdened by all but that of the white man. Something must be done.
The bloodletting that followed was frenzied. The distilled rage poured forth, greasy hands struggling to constrict Darren's spindly throat as paint-flecked dewalt workboots forced rib after rib in on itself. In dulce decorum. As the dust settled and blood congealed on the frozen coors light beer tap the lads had exercised their freedom of speech, their right to have a bloody opinion as guaranteed by the British constitution of human rights which only contains the good rights and not the bad rights. Not entirely sure what had made them so angry at whatever the thing was that made them angry enough to do that to Darren, they began to wipe down the bar and walls with beer towels. The carpet wouldn't need cleaning. Fortunately London Pride was on tap so they could use the red towels and things would be easier for Tracey in the morning when she put the wash on, things were looking up already. The lads didn't feel like honesty was the best policy in the circumstances (much like the Prime Minister often didn't feel like his policies were the best policies in the circumstances and so had new policies). This was partly due to the fact that the government had just passed a bill to legalise those other British rights, the imperial system and capital punishment. Instead one of the lads, who'd recently been made redundant when his company moved their headquarters to Ireland, offered the use of the shitty van he'd kept as severance. It was almost out of petrol anyway and he couldn't afford to refill it. One of the other lads knew a place.
So now, as he stares silently at the ceiling of a Vauxhall Astramax, this is a corner of an abandoned industrial estate that is forever Darren's.
0/5
They say:
"I miss Darren..." --the regulars
1/5
I say:
I could die. I am dying. Withering really. Or still living despite Atlas having stopped the earth and carefully placed it down before grabbing my ankle, digging his fingers in under my collarbone and tearing me in half. Twenty years of fetid abuse and viscera explode from a ravenous tear that unzips my belly. The smell is overpowering but still not as bad as the odour from the BBQ sauce on whatever the fuck the guy next to me has ordered from the wipe-clean menu. Darren finds it amusing but then he would wouldn't he. A smiling A3 size picture of him hangs above the fireplace. God knows why. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he was killed. In this bar. The picture was taken the night of his murder, pre-mortem. Ordinarily the regulars could put up with the utterly generic nature of their lives, their loves and their pub but Darren's decision to pair a shirt with a particularly small cuban collar and a tie in a chunky windsor knot was an affront. The two faux studs on said collar bored into their souls and told them that those halcyon days of stiff collars and upper lips, of honest graft for honest pay, FA cup finals and polio, the sheer-imperial-fucking-splendour of those uplands was never further away than they were right now. Darren hadn't clocked the simmering hostility of the atmosphere as he recorded a video for tik-tok. They were promised respect not irrelevance and the chance to hold their head high again unburdened by all but that of the white man. Something must be done.
The bloodletting that followed was frenzied. The distilled rage poured forth, greasy hands struggling to constrict Darren's spindly throat as paint-flecked dewalt workboots forced rib after rib in on itself. In dulce decorum. As the dust settled and blood congealed on the frozen coors light beer tap the lads had exercised their freedom of speech, their right to have a bloody opinion as guaranteed by the British constitution of human rights which only contains the good rights and not the bad rights. Not entirely sure what had made them so angry at whatever the thing was that made them angry enough to do that to Darren, they began to wipe down the bar and walls with beer towels. The carpet wouldn't need cleaning. Fortunately London Pride was on tap so they could use the red towels and things would be easier for Tracey in the morning when she put the wash on, things were looking up already. The lads didn't feel like honesty was the best policy in the circumstances (much like the Prime Minister often didn't feel like his policies were the best policies in the circumstances and so had new policies). This was partly due to the fact that the government had just passed a bill to legalise those other British rights, the imperial system and capital punishment. Instead one of the lads, who'd recently been made redundant when his company moved their headquarters to Ireland, offered the use of the shitty van he'd kept as severance. It was almost out of petrol anyway and he couldn't afford to refill it. One of the other lads knew a place.
So now, as he stares silently at the ceiling of a Vauxhall Astramax, this is a corner of an abandoned industrial estate that is forever Darren's.
0/5
Comments
Post a Comment