Forgive me Peggy Mitchell, for I have sinned. As a child I watched your ballbag like appearance tinkering around behind the bar at the Queen Vic, pouring shitty pints of fictional beer to leathered old men “on the house”. I watched you and I remained thoroughly perplexed as to why your curled lips and terminator eyes had to be so bloody rude to people. That is until two months ago when I started my first pub job in London, and everything changed. I started to understand.
While they’re not all bad, recent statistics suggest that a surprising (yet completely believable) 97% of punters in South West London have been proven to be bell ends who need to be dropkicked immediately. Here is a short list of my frequent offenders;
The High Flyer
The High Flyer will have half a pint of ale on their lunch break and seventeen cocktails after work to deal with their supposedly shit hot job at a la-dee-dah TV studio. They ask me what the soup of the day is despite never ordering it, and enjoy boasting about important afternoon meetings with YouTube. They give 20p tips with a wink and never, ever put their fags out in the ash trays. Every now and then, they’ll give you their business card as a momentum of their greatness. Pricks.
The Mom on The Brink of Pissing Her Pants
Bursting into the pub in between shopping and the school run, she wrestles her Argos bags towards the bar and orders a large glass of white wine, legs crossed and forehead slick with sweat. She hands you £8.70 in ten pence pieces and explains how she will just pop to the rest room while you pour it, save her waiting. She returns, takes one sip of her wine and leaves.
The Tourist Couple
They would like two beers and two fish and chips for a table that they have not yet chosen. They don’t understand what the fuck I’m saying, so choose to talk to eachother in their native language while I run around guessing their order, and as the night proceeds they will sit at the bar eating eachother’s faces until the pub closes.
The “2 Carlings Please Babe” Tradesman Wanker
He hands me a fuck load of dirty, sweaty change whilst waiting for his Guinness to settle and politely asks my tits where they’re from, where they study and where they live. Receiving no answer he labels me rude and begins to rant to his filthy friends about how much he hates working out of town in fucking London.
The Toga Guy
“27 shots of tequila please?!”
“FUCK OFF WE DON’T ALLOW FANCY DRESS.”
The Chelsea Shirt Guy
“5 pints of Fosters please?!”
“FUCK OFF WE DON’T ALLOW FOOTBALL SHIRTS.”
“£10.85 for two drinks?! This is a fuckin’ piss take. Bloody southeners.”
Go home to Yorkshire then. I dare you.