Amateur Season

Not the people described in this post, but thank you anyway Google Images

Yes.  It's December. It's cold.  It's wet.  It's Noddy Holder and Roy Wood's biggest earning time of the year.  Frankly, I'm sick of it.  I was sick of it by 4pm on 1/12, to be honest.  I'd go down the pub to avoid this crap, but by Orders Of The Pub Company they have to put up 'decorations' and have a 'Christmas Playlist'.  Sadly, they don't seem to realise that this, like Peroni on draught, attracts the wrong sort.

My heart sank upon walking through the door.  Eight blokes in Christmas jumpers swigging the aforementioned Italian Premium Lager.  It was Four-Thirty, and they were hammered. It's ok, I said.  They're circuit drinkers.  One pint and on to the next one.  I decided to brave it out rather than go to the Spoons where I can hide easier.

Greg also had the misfortune to be in that day.  Greg works at the museum.  He's an affable, if sartorially eccentric chap (half blond, half black hair; silver rings on every finger; large chain around his right pockets).  He was probably reckoned by the Peroni and Jumper types as an easier target for off-key Meatloaf songs and questions about his gender,

I'd've just walked out, doubting both my verbal and physical abilities against eight pissheads.  But Greg had had a bad day.  Both the F and the C words were used towards them. And then came the immortal comeback from the fattest and most pissed of the lot :

"It's just banter, mate. Where's your Christmas Spirit?"

"Don't talk to me about Christmas Spirit," he replied "You come into a fucking pub you've never fucking been in and take the piss out of someone you've never fucking met, you fucking bunch of pricks,"

You could take issue with Greg's language, but not his assessment of the character of these people. The barmaid had seen everything.  She told them that this was a nice pub and they should drink up and leave.  Fatty was ushered out of the door by a slightly less pissed mate, threatening complaints to the Pub Company, and saying that none of them would fucking come here again.  Greg was given a free pint for his trouble.

We all agreed afterwards that, while it would be difficult, the place would somehow muddle through without them.

The biggest laugh of the day, however, was gained when we saw them staggering towards the pub around the corner.  This, hilariously, is a somewhat, shall we say, a more down-to-earth establishment.

I'd be surprised if they were ever heard of again.