Or so wingco told me in his bit in The Guide. And I did a bit of research in to - hahahaha - Spartan and sure enough, the Grantham Journal is claiming him as one of their own.
I don't recognise him, or his name. Roddick Something. Which is a shame, as I was really, really hoping it was the guy who used to work doors on the Playhouse. Of course the chances of these two people being the same were as remote as the odds on Steve Bruce's Wigan team putting up a spirited performance tomorrow, but if they had been the same person, I would have had the best story ever about him.
Sadly, as I mentioned, they're not the same person. And so instead of this marvellously funny story, I've got to prit-stick this story together and hope it holds in the rain. But I'm sure it'll be fine, you're a forgiving crowd.
Sometime back in my early 20s, when I was a sure-footed, shoots from the hip kind of guy, I was on a terrible night out with the infamous Spanky. We'd hit the Black Dog happy hour for some luminous disco piss at a quid a bottle, and followed that up with a stint at the Royal Oaks happy hour, where we consumed yet more pound a round luminous disco piss. We were probably shit faced on about seven pounds, which, given the price of booze in London, seems remarkable.
At the end of the night, we decided to go back to the Playhouse, our favourite pub. Spanky was trying to - and excuse the clumsy use of language here, but I assure you it isn't as clumsy as Spanky's wooing techniques - get in to a young lady by the name of Kate. She was inside the pub, and we were outside. Which isn't a major problem to overcome when the building has over two doors that lead from the outside of the pub to the inside. Sadly, the hired gorillas who patrolled the doors decided we were too late to utilise these doors, and refused us entry.
Not to worry, we thought. Back in these days we rarely queued for stuff, and instead took the Goodfellas route of side doors, down corridors, and through kitchens. And so we headed off from the front door, down the side of the building, to the fire door that led to the pool table area. Except when we got there, the bouncer, not being as fucking stupid as we assumed he was, had got there first.
A large argument erupted between myself, Spanky and the bouncer. An argument about us taking the piss (we were). Him being a dickhead (he was). And us being cheeky little cunts (we were). Eventually I got bored of this, and full of VK Strength, I decided to finish this unseemly stramash once and for all. Clearly this buffoon in a bomber jacket did not realise who he was dealing with.
I turned to Spanky and said "Does he know who I am?" Spanky shook his head.
I turned then to the bouncer and asked the same question. "Do you know I am?" The bouncer shook his head.
"I don't give a fuck who you are." He grunted in reply.
"I din't ask that." I told him. "I asked: Do you know who I am?"
His patience was long gone, and he snarled back. "No, I fucking don't know who you are."
"Good." I said, as I kicked him as hard as I could in his balls.
The guy dropped clutching his sack, whimpering like my cat did when she got her head stuck in the Dyson. Spanky and me legged it back down the side of the pub and to the relative safety of Speedy Peppers where we tapped up Nigel and Oz for some free Bombay Potatoes.
We had to avoid The Playhouse for the next few weeks, which wasn't too difficult as we were both always fucking broke.
I don't recognise him, or his name. Roddick Something. Which is a shame, as I was really, really hoping it was the guy who used to work doors on the Playhouse. Of course the chances of these two people being the same were as remote as the odds on Steve Bruce's Wigan team putting up a spirited performance tomorrow, but if they had been the same person, I would have had the best story ever about him.
Sadly, as I mentioned, they're not the same person. And so instead of this marvellously funny story, I've got to prit-stick this story together and hope it holds in the rain. But I'm sure it'll be fine, you're a forgiving crowd.
Sometime back in my early 20s, when I was a sure-footed, shoots from the hip kind of guy, I was on a terrible night out with the infamous Spanky. We'd hit the Black Dog happy hour for some luminous disco piss at a quid a bottle, and followed that up with a stint at the Royal Oaks happy hour, where we consumed yet more pound a round luminous disco piss. We were probably shit faced on about seven pounds, which, given the price of booze in London, seems remarkable.
At the end of the night, we decided to go back to the Playhouse, our favourite pub. Spanky was trying to - and excuse the clumsy use of language here, but I assure you it isn't as clumsy as Spanky's wooing techniques - get in to a young lady by the name of Kate. She was inside the pub, and we were outside. Which isn't a major problem to overcome when the building has over two doors that lead from the outside of the pub to the inside. Sadly, the hired gorillas who patrolled the doors decided we were too late to utilise these doors, and refused us entry.
Not to worry, we thought. Back in these days we rarely queued for stuff, and instead took the Goodfellas route of side doors, down corridors, and through kitchens. And so we headed off from the front door, down the side of the building, to the fire door that led to the pool table area. Except when we got there, the bouncer, not being as fucking stupid as we assumed he was, had got there first.
A large argument erupted between myself, Spanky and the bouncer. An argument about us taking the piss (we were). Him being a dickhead (he was). And us being cheeky little cunts (we were). Eventually I got bored of this, and full of VK Strength, I decided to finish this unseemly stramash once and for all. Clearly this buffoon in a bomber jacket did not realise who he was dealing with.
I turned to Spanky and said "Does he know who I am?" Spanky shook his head.
I turned then to the bouncer and asked the same question. "Do you know I am?" The bouncer shook his head.
"I don't give a fuck who you are." He grunted in reply.
"I din't ask that." I told him. "I asked: Do you know who I am?"
His patience was long gone, and he snarled back. "No, I fucking don't know who you are."
"Good." I said, as I kicked him as hard as I could in his balls.
The guy dropped clutching his sack, whimpering like my cat did when she got her head stuck in the Dyson. Spanky and me legged it back down the side of the pub and to the relative safety of Speedy Peppers where we tapped up Nigel and Oz for some free Bombay Potatoes.
We had to avoid The Playhouse for the next few weeks, which wasn't too difficult as we were both always fucking broke.
Comment