I would like to point out that I always did, and continue to do so until this day, think that sniffed up was a reference to a current or previous cold infection. It was only when in the toilets with two of the world's loudest ever men, on the last Friday before Christmas, that I heard one of them roar that they wouldn't be able to eat their meal because they were "snifft up off mi tits man" referencing, one imagines, recreational drugs. So the title is about injecting misery into your veins. AKA going out on Fruit Loop Friday. Hope that helps....
Oh, and a warning to any delicate souls reading - this post does feature a large swathe of what I might politely call "maritime language". AKA swearing. Look away now if you are scared of the f word.
So, who would want to go out on the last Friday before Christmas? Who? And why? Well, the thing is, am thinking that I may have gone out on every such cataclysm of coarse language and crude behaviour in the last ten years - not least because Wee Keefy's work mates almost always have their Christmas pub crawl on that day. And am struggling to recall a year when I didn't see them. So if its not such a big deal in terms of times completed, what is it that I hate about the last Friday before Christmas so much? Let me tell you....
Not wanting to go over old territory (that much) I think most of all I dislike the large numbers of obnoxious people infringing on my personal space, and the fact that a number of these irregulars believe that the season to be merry is, instead, the season to act without reason. Am not going to try and assume a high moral line against drinking to excess - even if I never say it I am aware that I drink too much and my birthday week this year was an excellent example of my drinking well beyond the bounds of sensibility by anyone's standards. What I would say, however, is that apart from the odd argument with those around me, I never become aggressive, and never physically attack people when am drunk. This is a rule that I observe as a member of human society. And its not one that I consider the festive season is reason enough to abandon entirely.
Many of you will have heard the phrase pub voice. This is a voice that most people have, at a reasonable volume, that should be used when in the pub surrounded by other humans, whom have ears. Inside the pub is not a place to try out your foghorn overpowering bellow. Not even once. And definitely not all bloody night. Yet for some reason, the festive season seems to be overladen with the shoutiest and most annoying people ever. And the last Friday before Christmas is their pied piper of pointless, piss taking, rambunctiousness.
Then, there is the lack of spacial awareness. As a hundred and something year old pub building, Shakespeares has a number of rooms and a relatively small bar area. Using even the most infantile logic its easy to spot that congregating at the bar once you have your drink is entirely the behaviour of fucktards. Apologies for my Middle-English. I have sat at the bar, in times of quiet. The last Friday before Christmas is not that. Get your drink, and piss off out of everyone's way OK? Its a simple rule to follow.
A lack of knowledge of beers and pub etiquette and manners is also piss boilingly annoying. As per the below:
Fucknugget: Steeef. Steeef. Dyerwanna beer?
Far away Fucknugget: Whorrivthi go?
F: Ave yer gorrany lager pal?
Barkeep: Yes we have Becks Vier, Paulaner or bottles of Corona....
F: Fuck me, errr...ooh, this uns 11% Steeee-eeee-eeeef! Steeee-eeee-eeee-eeef!
Barkeep: it is £8.90 a pint though
F Yer fuckin wha? yavvin a fuckin laff er wha?
Barkeep: you could have a pint of Becks for £3.40
F: aye go on then (laughs, turns away and points over shoulder at barkeep) this guys tranna sell mi a pint for £19.00 a gu.....
FAF: wosztha go meh?
F: nnanuvver pint er tha please pal
FAF : eh?
Some 11% shit, a dorn fuckin norr.....
This goes on for the next 7 hours. This is one of many reason I don't work behind a bar. The above is not a criticism of lager drinkers, by the way, before you get your angry crayon out....
And finally, mass. Too many people in too small a space. For the love of made up deities, just go somewhere else!
The weight of the air, sticky with overweight men's sweaty farts and Thorseby market perfume splashed on by the litre. Blokes pissing in the sink because there is a queue of two for the urinals. A ten minute scramble to the loos. People who can't pronounce available, thinking it features the letter D. People who are proud of knowing nothing. People who start anecdotes in great enthusiasm, only to not finish them or drift off onto another subject, like John McCabe. Sitting behind a near impenetrable barrier of massive lumbering chimp men with the brains of a cat and the hygiene of a dead rat. Its really not very good fun.
Yet, despite all of the above, I was out in this shambles. I was drinking and enjoying Almasty Pale on cask from the past, and enjoying the company of my Brother and his workmates. We finished the night in a reassuringly quieter Bar Stewards on a mental pint of Wylam Reality Asylum hoppy soup at 7.4% and it was amazing.
And that is the ironic thing. I enjoyed my night out because I was drinking what I liked in my two favourite pubs with people I love. Partially the same remit as the noisy simpletons blocking the bar.
Although, to the best of my knowledge, I don't have breath like a miner's sock with a poo in it.