A night of near terror

Posted in Old blogger by Twenty Major on January 17th, 2006

It was a normal evening Ron’s. I was sitting at the bar with Jimmy the Bollix who was regaling us with a story about when he was a bouncer in Soho back in the 80s. Suffice to say it involved Marc Almond, a Tory MP, a large bag of mixed nuts, a phillips head screwdriver and an icing bag filled with man custard.

Dirty Dave was there too, as was Stinking Pete, Splodge and Lucky Luciano who has just come back from Israel and is muttering under his breath about ‘too many security guards’ and how much he hates the smell of hospitals.

Anyway, in came a bloke with a stupid beard and ridiculously old fashioned jumper. One of those zig-zaggy efforts that people wore a lot in the early 80s. He was carrying a large round case. He sat down in the corner and didn’t order a drink. An eyebrow or two was raised at the bar but nothing was said.

Then a few minutes later came in another pair in Aran jumpers and sort of baby poo brown cords. One of them had a satchel of some kind while the other carried something that made Lucky’s eyes light up, a fiddle case. Shortly after another man came in and he had a guitar case followed just a minute or two later by another fucking cunt with a banjo case.

One of them came up to the bar. “5 glasses of Guinness please, barchappy!” he trilled.

There is only one thing that’s gayer than glasses of Guinness and that’s Graham Norton dressed as Liberace covered in KY Jelly giving a reach around to Shirly Temple Bar whilst sucking Boy George’s cock and being fisted by Tarzan.

So Ron served him with a furrowed brow. He took the drinks over to their table on a tray - I ask you - and they sat there talking for a while.

I had my back to them but Jimmy could see them from his seat. About 10 minutes later he said “Jesus, Twenty. That cunt’s after taking out a bodrhán. And that other fucker has taken a tin whistle out of his satchel.”

I looked around. It was true. And the guitar and the fiddle were out of their cases and the banjo was on its way too. There wasn’t a moment to be lost.

“Quick!” I shouted. “Get them before it’s too late.”

So we got up from our seats and rushed over. Lucky Luciano leapt on the man with the guitar and headbutted him in the face as they fell to the ground.

Jimmy went straight for the lad with the bodhrán who was looking around desperately for a way out. A dark stain appeared on the front of his pants just miliseconds before Jimmy’s fist landed straight on his nose. To make sure there’d be no drumming Jimmy snapped all the fingers on his left hand one by one.

Stinking Pete took the fiddler to the roof and fucked him off while Dirty Dave raised his armpit to the banjo man who promptly passed out at which point Dave broke the banjo over his head a few times.

I was left with the tin whistler, who seeing the damage done to his chums, took drastic action. He put the whistle to his mouth.

“You wouldn’t dare”, I said.

“Try me”, he answered. “Come any closer and I’ll start some kind of a reel or jig. I swear to you.”

“Just put the whistle down and we’ll let you go. Come on, put it down. Don’t be stupid. There’s nobody left to protect you and there’s 5 of us.”

He backed away, nervously. I moved towards him.

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO COME ANY CLOSER!” he shouted, whistle still in his mouth.

“Ok, Ok. I’ll stay here. I won’t come any closer”, I reassured him.

“I will though” said Ron coming from behind the bar just before he smashed a bottle of Vat 69 - cheap as fuck whiskey for the tourists that he pours into Jameson bottles - over his head.

“Whistle that, you cunt”, he said.

After we’d desposited them groaning, moaning and in case sobbing like a baby on the street outside we sat down and Ron poured a round of pints.

What a relief it was. I really hate traditional music.