selfish cunts

a long streak of blow-dried piss walks into a bar. no, this isn't the start of a joke. it's the start of a fucking wind up. it's the start of a small urban outrage. it's the start of another dismal little chip at the unfashionable common courtesies that used to be part of making life bearably less brutish. it's the start of another small episode of "fuck you, out of my way, it's MY world, it's all about me because I'm worth it". 

so the cunt walks into a bar that looks like every other bar in a chain of bars forced into the hollowed out bowels of bank branches and monumental post offices on high streets and amongst offices full of selfish pricks.

fuck anyone else who wants to sit down. fuck anyone stupid enough to observe the outmoded conventions of English pub etiquette. buy drink BEFORE taking table? bollocks to that. claim your spaces with your effeminate little man bag and your jacket from the big branch of NEXT next to the branch of JD Sports, next to the branch of Carphone Warehouse, next to the branch of Pets at Home, next to the branch of Halfords at the retail park.

let those other cunts seethe and bristle - curly white-shirted cunt with his mean eyes, who's realising that the crap stepped-on coke he's just done in toilet is so weak that it won't make him brave enough to fight for a seat; red-shirted cunt with his flinty, hostile eyes and his spastic curtains haircut; token bird (Jenny from accounts, why is she hanging around with three blokes? is she fucking all of them? is she white-shirt's bird? is he the only one that can get a bird? look at those sad, loveless cunts - they'll probably go back to their bedrooms in their mums' houses and wank themselves to death, the fucking arseholes). yeah, run along, tossers.

you wouldn't try that in a real pub,you long streak of piss, seethes white-shirt. you wouldn't try that in my local. not with my real mates. come down there and we'll kick your fucking head in, he imagines.

here they come. your mates. two guys you know and some mate of Dave's. and Holly from accounts.  unshaven Karl, legendary target-smasher and fanny-magnet says: "you're a legend, mate." glow of pride. swelling of tumescence. bromance. football on. good view of screen. after a day spent on hilarious banter, Facebook updates and sales meetings, we deserve a drink. it's our reward.

now settle down to swap uninformed remarks about the team you've supported ever since they won the champions league when you were twenty-five. one day you'll go up to their ground to see a match. but it's the other end of the country and it's meant to be cold up north. and you get a better view on telly anyway.

"We produced a series of 20 TV spots for Carlsberg that air throughout the mid-week sports schedule on Sky Sports. The objective of the sponsorship is to get Carlsberg out of the fridge and into the hands of guys who want to kick back with a beer and their favourite sports channel. Reaffirming the brand positioning of Carlsberg as a reward around the tag-line "That calls for a Carlsberg""