No.
I think of a pub, a pub with a beer garden, an old fashioned wooden slide, a swing. Animal heads and antlers of sizes big and small on the walls inside...glass display cases everywhere, stuffed wildlife; fox and badger, stoat and weasel, bird stuck on a bit of twig and branch...tatty full-sized grizzly bear on hind leg in a corner, a country and western song filling the void...a generous coating of dust, the place not cleaned for years.
The landlord: head, LARGE, face round and flushed, wiry clouds of grey hair, huffing and puffing. Brown corduroy jacket, light green check shirt, royal blue silk tie and maroon tank top size too tight for fat body. I ask why. He hiss don’t be rude.
Four regulars; eighty-seven year-old Rosie, smells of Tweed and urine, a bag o' bones in big armchair by fire, nursing a Babycham, mumble crap all night, emptying and refilling white leather handbag (dozens upon dozens of disposable cigarette lighters?) and three men call Dave who drop in most evenings.
Two Daves work on a city farm. Other mechanic. Huge, russet-faced brutes all three.
Maggot, mangy, flee ridden dog belong to one Dave also spend evening in pub dozing, breaking wind at master’s feet. The dog bottom so prolific most nights, fart dispatched, silently, once every seven minute. The dog doze on oblivious. Fill main bar area with rancid smell of rotten meat and boiled cabbage. Drive landlord distracted.
“Sorry Dave, I’m going to ask you to take him outside and tie him up. I’ve got my other customers to think about.”
But Dave love dog so much he take the blame for farts himself.
Sometime, the odd stray stumble in to pub, be met by cessation of bar conversation, hostile stare from everyone, overbearing scent of loose dog arse. Most turn, leave immediately.
Occasional night, fourteen or fifteen pints of ale, three Daves go sozzled, ruined to skittle alley for few rounds. They bribe me with promise of tenner to stand at far end of alley be ‘sticker upper’. I don’t want, but Daves force me. They play skittles take a run up, bowl ball over arm. Landlord give me crash helmet for birthday.
In summer, beer garden get infested ants. I point out to landlord, but he say shut fuck up, do nowt. One Sunday, customer complain at landlord.
“Excuse me. I just went to the toilet and came back out to find a battalion of ants eating my sausages.”
“Well, erm, there’s not really much I can do about that, I’m afraid...”
“Not much you can do!!??” He incredulous, raise voice. “I want replacement sausages. Now!!”
I fetch lanlord, he tell angry man he get new food.
He storm to kitchen, all a flap and a fuss. Give me slap round head on the way, out of frustration.
“This ruddy beer garden is going to be my ruddy downfall,” he rant. “All my profit for today has just been eaten up, quite literally, by those ruddy ants.”
Me arrive for evening drink at pub, see the three Daves grin like idiot.
“What are you three so happy about this evening, then?” I say.
“Ain’t you noticed?” say a Dave, snigger.
“Noticed what?”
“We renamed the pub in our honour.” Other Dave say, snigger too.
“Oh right. And what’s it called now then?”
“Go outside and see for yourself,” the third Dave he say, nod toward the door. I go outside, look up.
Sign swing gently in evening breeze above pub’s door. Featured coat of arms and normally read ‘The Kings of Wessex’.
Three letters painted out.
Now read ‘The Kings of sex’.
