Time Gentlemen, Please

An early draft of a story that i’m working on. A lot of the themes that are in this story (derelict boozers, distortions of time and space) and a lot of the descriptions (the seductive cloying smells of the pub) can be seen in other works I have produced, but, I thought this would be nice for a Thursday afternoon. If you’re in the pub reading this, I salute you. I reckon the premise could be turned into a good piece of drama. The story was written after a trip to an empty pub I was priviledged enough to be invited to – there are pictures – but they will emerge at a later date.

NB – I don’t know where the character of Si is going. But the best thing is, nor does he. He’s probably going to Goa at some point, and is very excited that the Ozrics are playing the Hare and Hounds in May.

Time Gentleman, Please.

Infinity (Tommy’s land)

The ash fell onto Tommy’s blazer.


He coughed metallically, and stared at his half mild. The Brown Sauce he’d put in it earlier writhed around happily, oozing slowly into the ether. He re-lit, the tar residue on his roach slimed on his lips and tongue. Tommy relaxed for a moment. Calm. Only one here. He looked around the lounge. Some right rum fucker’s been here, he thought. Blue walls here, red walls above the gas fire. Hierogylphics of white paint here and there. No idea.

1991 (Anchovy in the UK – Si’s land)

Red spots tunnel vision, pulsating back and pulsating forth. Party in the lounge. Huddled over ciders and ales, skinning up on the PA system. The air thick with skunk smoke and cigarettes. Pounding music, cider-techno they called it. No discernable tune, a heavy beat and very distorted 808 synths, live bass…She swung her long brown hair about, dancing in the lounge. Strobes were beautiful. Si sat slack jawed and twitchy,crawling his back against the wall. Whatever he’d taken had the desired effect. Perfection.


Tommy got slowly up and stretched. He shuffled on the carpet, over to where Jack had been, years ago. Jack and his dog, Doug. Doug was a bastard of a beast, could lap up a pint of best in seconds. Jack would sit there, playing cribbage with the Westies. The Westies always won, but Jack always played. A peace of mind, a tranquillity. The air was beautiful. When you walked in, the familiar stenches hit you. Piss, tobacco, sweat and yeast, the most seductive mistress. When she grabbed you, and breathed her delicious breath into you, you know you’d be there for a good part of the day. Tantalising she was. But not today. Seats bare, cold. The door creaked as Tommy opened it, into the bar area.

1991 (Mind the step)

Mind the step? That seemed like a…Si picked himself off the floor, past Boring John and Welsh Jane. S’alright, don’t worry. The cider-techno sounded distant, almost mocking, as he fumbled the way towards the outside bog-house. He was alright. Good to get a bit of distance between him and the brunette. She was giving him the right horn, but those pills he took earlier had knocked him about. Too many heads outside, a few he recognised. He smiled balefully as he tried to get to the bog, cold handle, stinking floor. He relaxed as he took the best piss in the world.


A television? What on hell’s that doing? Outside in the yard? Never seen anything like it. Especially on a Tuesday. No. Tuesday weren’t it. It was a Wednesday today. Had a Y in it. Loads of loads of rubbish everywhere. They better clean all that up soon. Don’t know what they’re playing at. Fucking table.


Oh, that’s better. So warm. Not touching that handle though. Leave it for the next unlucky bugger. She’s lovely, that brunette. Wonder if she’d fancy me? I’m mashed. Still, cut a fine dash don’t I? I’m alright? Breath? Shouldn’t have had that cheese and onion sandwich earlier. Got a bit wedged in my crown. Tried to swill it out a bit with my cider. Never mind. Be alright. Hang on, where’s the music gone? And that…can’t be light outside. How long have I been in here for?

“oo the fuck are you then?”

“Where…where am I? Christ it’s cold.”

Tommy looked up and down at the new arrival, staggering out the bog-house. Rum looking bugger.


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