Life in an english pub: Meet Mr B

“Oi! Taffy, come ‘ere.” Taffy was the nickname I’d been cursed with when I’d first started and the guys at table thirteen were convinced I was really Welsh. Mr B crooked a finger beckoning me over. I rolled my eyes as he jokingly leered at me. Mr B was in his early 70s and my own personal sexaul harraser – although he meant no real harm.

I lowered myself onto a stool beside him, “What do you want you dirty old man?”

A chuckle erupted from his lips, “I have a story, you’ll love it.”

“Ok, give it to me.”

“I’d love to.”

“Just get on with the story.”

“Right well, about 20 years ago, I used to live upstairs back when this was a classy establishment. Anyway, one new years eve, me and one of the Kiwi lads decided to get on it, the drink of choice was bloody marys. You know what bloody marys are right, Taff.”

I threw him a murderous look which I felt said it all. “Of course I know what a bloody mary is.”

“Right, right. We were throwing them back with sherry in ‘em like they were going out of fashion. So, by midnight we’re off our faces and I stumble upstairs and I need to use the crapper. Down come the trousers and the pants and then it’s like an explosion, like a volcano’s erupted and my shit’s the lava.”

I clutch my stomach as the giggles bubble forth at the image in my mind. I wave a hand for him to continue.

“There’s shit up the walls, on the curtains, on the carpet, you name it and it was there.”

“How did you manage it?” I gasped between giggles.

“No a clue. J came over with a bucket and shovel and shoveled it up.”

J was Mr B’s lady friend. I didn’t envy her the position.

“Did she manage to get it all out?”

“Nah, the carpet was never the same again, had to be ripped up and replaced. £2000 later.”

“Wow that’s an expensive bowel motion.” I couldn’t stop the laughter. I stood up knowing I’d better get back to work, “Thanks for the storytime.”

“Thought you’d like that one.” I started to walk back to the bar, “Hey, Taffy? Nice arse.”

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