Tag Archives: pub

Stray Nipple Hair

14 Jun

This is, without a doubt, the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me. Let me set the scene; it was a glorious Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining and I was sat in the pub with a large group of friends. Also with us, were a few people I hadn’t met before, but were ‘friends of friends’, so, being the gentleman I am, I was chatting to them and trying not to make myself look a twat.

It was soon my turn to get a round of drinks in. I took everyone’s order and made my way to the bar, asking Sue, one of the girls I’d only just met, to give me a hand with them. At the bar, we had a bit of awkward, forced conversation whilst waiting for the drinks. It was then that it happened. The most God awful thing that will happen to me for a long, long while.

As we stood making small talk, I noticed that she had a solitary stray dark hair on her top. She was wearing a white blouse, so it stood out really clearly. The hair was only a couple of centimeters long and positioned near her right breast. As soon as the words, “Oh, you’ve got a hair on you”, came out of my mouth, I knew I was making a mistake, for my hand raised upwards towards the hair in a bid to remove it.

This itself was bad, because as already mentioned, it was on her tit. However, it was too late to stop myself. My finger and thumb grabbed at the end of the hair like one of those mechanical claws at a funfair, that people waste money on trying to win a teddy bear. Unlike the mechanical claw though, I made a good connection, and in one swift motion, pulled the hair up and away from her top.

What I was expecting to happen was that the hair would come free, I’d rub my hands together to deposit it on the ground, she’d thank me, and we’d return to our friends with the drinks.

Only it didn’t.

As I pulled the hair away, Sue’s whole boob lunged forward towards me;  as if it were trying to break free. I pulled once more, a little harder, and again a her boob came at me, this time with more purpose. Taken aback, I stopped pulling, BUT MAINTAINED CONTACT with the hair, still holding it in between my finger and thumb.

It took a while for my brain to compute what was happening, and slowly the realisation dawned on me that, yes, the hair was actually attached to her boob (at a guess I’d say on her areola, but I cannot confirm this) and was in fact poking through her blouse. I looked up and made eye contact with Sue, slowly releasing my grip on her stray nipple hair. She was crimson red, mouth agape, staring back at me like I was Hitler, Stalin and Mugabe all rolled into one person.

I turned and walked out of the pub.

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AB#5 – The Return of Axle Strider

7 Aug

My local pub, the Bell End View Local Tavern is where I go every Sunday night for a couple of pints of Abbot Ale, and to join in the quiz with all the other locals. Yesterday saw a £50 prize going to the winner, so I headed straight down after my dinner to get a decent seat. The pub itself has a very cosy atmosphere; the faded red upholstery that adorns most of the seats now has a more of a pink tinge to it, and the old oak posts and floorboards are battered and worn. Old brass utensils are hung sporadically on the walls and the low sloping ceiling makes the whole place seem smaller than it really is. A log fire burns most nights keeping the pub warm and inviting.

It’s shielded from the rest of the pub by a very large grill. It didn’t used to be, but after an elderly chap had a rather bad accident after too much rum in close proximity to the fire, Health and Safety called for it to be installed. His nickname is now ‘Weston’. The pub has no pool table, which I like, as it keeps unwanted youths away, and the bitter is always of good quality. The main reason I come here though is the people. From landlady Scatty Morag to many of the other locals – Big Paul, Carpenter Dave (he’s a plumber), Chin O’Brien and Mustang Wally; they are all a lovely bunch of people that give me a lot of time and good conversation.

I arrived at about ten past seven to yesterdays quiz, and the pub was already to beginning to fill up with hopeful people all wanting to take part and win. I always enter the quiz on my own, rather than being in a team, as I like to take all the glory for myself. Plus, what’s the point of splitting £50 five ways? I’ve never seen the use of winning a tenner. My usual stool at the end of the bar was unoccupied so I ordered a pint of Abbot and a packet of pork scratchings and sat down.

“What time do we get underway, Morag”, I asked as she handed me my change.

”Well Arthur it’s an 8 o’clock kick off, would you like a cheese sandwich?” she replied, smiling.

“No thanks, I’ve just eaten” was my response and I was a bit surprised at how quickly she’d managed to change the subject, which Morag was famed for.

I passed her my £1 entry fee and looked around scanning any potential competition. Most of the usual faces were already gathered in their groups; my main rivals were sat directly opposite me near the door. ‘God Shave the Queen’ is their ‘hilarious’ team name, but they have won six of the last eight quiz nights. Mustang Wally is the brains behind the team, specializing in both science and geography, but his wife Brenda is also capable when it comes to history questions. I think that they carry the other two members of the team somewhat, their next door neighbours Colin and Bruce, a couple of homosexuals that have matching moustaches and who like to fornicate in public.

Also present were ‘The Old Couple’, ‘Pump your Quiz on me’, ‘Farmers Meekly’ and ‘Beadle’s Claw’, among others. I opted to go for my usual name of ‘Solo Baggall’. Although it sounds like some sort of lurid sex act, I like this name and I will always keep it. I can’t stand teams that change their team name every week; in fact, I think there should be a 10 point deduction for any team that wants to change their name. Farcical. As 8 o’clock neared, the pub was bustling with people getting drinks in ready prior to the quiz starting. I got another pint in as the first one had gone down so well.

Question Master for the evening was to be Morag’s husband, Phil, who always did a good job. Morag passed Phil a microphone from behind the bar and it made a piercing shrill as he flicked it on. “Good evening Ladies and Gents and welcome to the weekly Bell End View quiz night! As some of you know, first prize tonight is £50, so good luck all. Morag is handing out paper and pens to all the teams as we speak and once she’s done that, I’ll start the quiz!” I took my pen in my hand and then hunched over my paper slightly in the fashion of a child at school, so no-one could copy any of my answers. I was quietly confident that this was going to be my week.

“Round 1 will be on Capital Cities”, said Phil. My eyes lit up. I couldn’t believe it, my best topic. I was determined to get into an early lead and show my rivals I meant business. Phil picked up his clipboard of questions and spoke into the microphone.

 “Ok, question 1. What is the capita ARRHHGGGHHH, what the f….”

He was stopped mid sentence by an almighty smash. There were cries of terror coming from two women sat on a table behind me, near the back entrance which leads to the garden. Looking over my shoulder I saw broken glass littering the tables, chairs and floor that stood in front of what used to be a window. The occupants of the table were not badly hurt; one lady had a deep gouge on her cheek but was otherwise fine. She looked to be making the most of it, milking the fact she was bleeding as a way of getting a bit of attention. The woman and her friends made their way over to the bar and everyone was now beginning to crowd around the area where I was sat to see what had happened. The whole pub had fallen into an eerie silence. The congregation around me reeked of anticipation; they were expecting something else to happen.

“Please remain calm and return to your seating”, announced Phil with slight discomfort in his voice.

No-one listened; they remained focused on the smashed window. Morag had shimmied over to the area to retrieve a brick from the floor. This was obviously the projectile that had been used to cause this damage but who had thrown it? Although it only happened yesterday, I cannot really remember what was going through my head at this point. I think I was more transfixed on watching the actions of others. I remember having a gut feeling that something else was going to happen, and I was right. From out of the dark night sky, a figure moved towards the shattered window. I could only make out the silhouetted outline at first but as they moved nearer, It slowly dawned on me as to who it was. The person in question is a beast of a man, the local nutcase who had previously done time for GBH, armed robbery and necrophilia; a man that I had the misfortune of spending my school years with. Most of the crimes he commits are carried out whilst he’s high on drugs, I’ve spotted him on my binoculars before, sniffing glue and popping pills in the early hours of the morning.

The man who had smashed the window was Axle Strider.

He was back from wherever he’d been, and he didn’t look too happy. His face was contorted with rage; his bulbous eyes with dilated pupils looked full of confusion and anger. Sweat trickled down his bald, veiny head, and it glistened like a disco ball from the light emitted from the pubs fire. His stonewash jeans were tattered and dirty, and they were held onto his lower torso with what looked to be a bungee cord. His white vest was thick with grease and mud and clung to his toned chest like a limpet. Over this he wore a denim jacket, with the sleeves rolled up. It didn’t quite match the shade of his jeans, it appeared to be newer. In one hand he clasped a butchers’ knife. The other was in the air with the middle finger raised.

“What the fook are you lot lookin’ at, eh?” he screamed, as he waved the knife menacingly.

Many people in the pub had moved back now towards the entrance and those that had been around me trying to see what was going on were following suit. I remained in my seat trying to stay calm. In truth I was petrified. Axle used to bully me at school and it was no surprise to me he had turned out like he had. I wanted to keep my head down, try and look away, but something was stopping me. I just had to watch the mentalist.

“Axle, my love, what the bleedin’ Hell are you doing? What do you want? Can I get you a Stella? Why did you smash my window?” Morag was hysterical. She was shaking like a cold Parkinson’s sufferer.

Phil had moved behind the bar and put a reassuring arm around her. She nuzzled into his neck and began to sob.

“Pleeease, please go Axle. Why are you doing this to my pub?” Her words sounded weak and feeble. The corner of Axle’s mouth moved up slightly and he broke into a smile. As he smiled, his chapped top lip bled slightly as the skin broke out from the tight position it had previously been in. He was now starting to climb through the window and no one was doing anything to stop him. I remember Mustang Wally attempting to remonstrate with him and I admire him for that. He walked towards Axle, picking up an empty pint glass on the way. Axle leapt through the window, knocking the remaining shards of glass out from the window frame with his feet as he did so. Wally was in trouble and we all knew it.

“Leave him Wally”, said Phil, almost inaudibly. Wally looked at Phil and then backed away slowly from the window. Axle started to laugh.

“HAHAHA, you utter wimp, you complete and utter wimp” and as he said this he moved towards the bar where we were all gathered. My heart sank as his gaze fixed onto me, once again I was trying to look away but I just couldn’t. I knew he recognised me from somewhere, I was just hoping he wouldn’t figure it out. Many people were pleading with him to leave.

All he would say though was “I am Axle Strider and I will do what I please”. “YOU!” he shouted, prodding me in the chest with his finger. “Who are you? I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

He was right in my face now, spitting the words out through his clenched teeth. I was so close to him, I could see the patterns of stubble against his rough skin. I could smell alcohol on his breath and I could taste his salty body odour which was raping the air. I was scared and he knew it.

“No, not me, Sir” I said, in the gentlest manner I could. “I think you have me confused with someone else”. It sounded convincing enough in my head.

Axle took a step back and surveyed me up and down.

“No, I do know you. You’re Baggall aren’t you? I knew it! I knew I recognised you’re ugly mug”. He slammed a fist onto the bar in front of me. Morag let out a quiet whimper as if she knew what was about to happen. I looked around me for support but everyone had gone to the front of the pub, packing themselves against the wall. I was on my own. Axle lurched forward again and grabbed me by the collar of my jumper. The force of this sent my flat cap to the floor. He looked like a rabid dog; foaming at the mouth and now shouting an impressive array of obscenities. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. People were shouting, I could see their mouths moving, but I could hear nothing. It was like I was underwater.

I looked into Axle’s eyes and he just looked back blankly; it seemed as if he was looking straight through me. He moved his right arm backwards, his tightly clenched fist pointed down towards me, with numerous sovereign rings ready to pummel my face in. Everything was moving in slow motion. As his fist came through the air towards me, I did the only thing I could. I moved my head to one side and pushed my arm upwards towards his face. As I made contact with his sweaty face, I pushed my index finger deep into his eye, gouging it; twisting my wrist so that I could inflict as much pain as I physically could. Axle let out a terrifying scream in agony and staggered back, releasing his grip on me. He fell to his knees and covered his face with both of his hands. Blood was oozing from his eye socket and spilling down his face. I was in shock. I looked at my hand. I had Axle’s blood spattered over it. I remember the noise coming back into the room at this point. I heard a cry of “What has he done, Arthur’s a dead man now” and it sprung me back into action.

“Take that you bastard!” I leapt forward and kicked upwards against Axle’s chin, sending him backwards onto the floor. He was sprayed out like an upturned woodlouse, disorientated and desperately trying to feel for something to help him to his feet. A nasty looking cut had formed from the kick, a gash so deep you could just see the bone. I knelt onto Axle’s chest and tried to pull his tongue out. It gripped the fleshy end between my thumb and forefinger and tugged downwards. As I did so, Axle’s head jolted forward and met the palm of my other hand, sending him back to the floor.

Blood was pissing out of his face now, he was almost recognisable. I had never got into a rage like this before, the last time I came close was when I was back at school and the bullies used to lock me in the stock cupboard with the school cleaner, who was later convicted as a paedophile. I used to get taunted saying that I had turned him. I suppose it was these memories that came flooding back as I pummelled Axle. Every last sap of energy drained out of me as I laid a relentless barrage of punches, kicks and slaps. After 5 minutes or so, I stood up, sweaty and dazed. Axle lay on the floor like a dead badger on the side of the road. I don’t know why but other people in the pub began to clap. There was cheering as well, “Way to go Arthur, Yeah!” a jubilant Morag exclaimed, “Let’s drag the evil swine outside”.

So we did. It took 4 of us to move his battered body across the floor and into the pub garden. We rolled him into the bushes and retired back to the pub for a celebratory drink. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I was a quivering wreck by this point. I wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of being a hero or the fear of Axle’s revenge. Either way, I was going to try and savour the moment. The night passed quickly without any further incident of note. I was proud to have conquered a few of my childhood demons, with Axle taking to full brunt of this.

I was rewarded with a three-some with Phil and Morag. After closing time, we headed upstairs and into their bedroom, onto the marital bed. Things were by no means awkward and we got straight on with things. I took Morag from behind, quite slowly, whilst she performed fellatio on Phil. It got quite messy. Morag was begging me to come deep inside her at one point, but I wasn’t ready. I squeezed my throbbing shaft at the base and withdrew. The sight of me, member bobbing around proudly, caused Phil to withdraw and spatter Morag’s face with his man fat. She looked like a plasterer’s radio, but she managed to force a smile and lick her lips a little. I was bashing myself off like a little spider monkey at this point, whilst furiously fingering Morag’s baggy snatch. Yes, she was old, but her pert breasts more than made up for the lack of friction I was receiving from her vaginal passage. She had a nice little rug on her as well, like a 70s German porn star.

Phil was watching, semi-awake and semi-erect. I took his place on the bed and lay down. Morag shimmied herself over me and then squatted, releasing a torrent of fluid over my chest, which I massaged into myself. She then lowered herself onto my wand and began to slowly gyrate, leaning forward so I could take a nipple between my teeth. I held onto her arse for support and went at jack hammer speed. Morag wailed loudly and arched her back, her ribcage protruded through her skin. I was ready to unleash my load into her cunny and Morag shouted, “I’m coming Mr.Baggall you fucker” as she climaxed. I won’t go into the finer details of last night, but I sure did enjoy myself. As for Axle Strider; I hope he never has the nerve to show his face around here again.

Some Dirty Bastard has shat on the seat…

7 Jul

…were the words of disgust from the bargirl as she stepped out from behind the bar, face contorted with disbelief, coat hanger in hand. A few of us went silent, pints held inches from our open mouths.

“Erm, what’s the coat hanger for?”, someone asked. “Are you going to hang it out to dry?”

There was stifled laughter amongst my group of friends; I tried my hardest to get the image of a turd hanging gracefully on a washing line, swaying in the wind, out of my head.

“No. I’m going to knock it in with it.”

We fell about laughing. As the bargirl ventured into the murky gents toilets, talk turned to the culprit of such a heinous (but quite amusing nonetheless) crime. One friend, Ashley, was particularly quiet and wasn’t joining in much. Whilst most of us sniggered, and found the episode thoroughly enjoyable, he had gone quite coy. Fingers were soon pointed in the direction of Ashley.

“Shut up, she’s fucking livid” Ashley said, starting to turn crimson.

“Did you do it? Did you?”. We were all eager to hear his story, but after much probing, there was still no owning up from Ashley, despite all evidence pointing to him. He’d been to the toilets recently, and for quite a while. We carried on with the questioning until the bargirl returned from the gents, hand over her mouth, gagging.

“I can’t do it. It’s making me heave”.

With the evidence literally still sat there waiting, we ventured in to see the damage. As we piled into the gents, there were cries of both horror and joy. There, on the back on the toilet seat, was a perfectly formed baby toilet truffle, about 5 inches long. The damage to the fecal matter from the hook on the coat hanger was visible with a few vertical ‘stripes’ down the side of it where the bargirl had tried to hook it off the seat and into the bowl. This turd was sticking around it seemed.

With none of us brave enough to try and shift it, we spilled back out into the bar and returned to our pints. Simon grabbed Ashley’s phone from his hand,

“Just need to text…WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT??!!!”

Ashley’s head dropped. We all gathered round. There was the all the evidence needed to convict him of the crime right in front of us. A photo, taken on his mobile, which he’d been trying desperately to delete. We ribbed him mercifully.

“Why, Ash? Why?” one of us enquired.

“I just thought it would be a laugh, but then I saw her reaction”, he motioned towards the bar “and thought better of it.”

I wasn’t sure what to think, but things took a further twist.

“Ashley, in this photo, the shit is on the right hand side, but in the toilet, it’s slap bang in the centre. Why?”

“It looked better in the middle”, came Ash’s reply, and with that, we collapsed into fits of giggles once more

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