The pub


Stained wood table tops, sticky with the dregs of a thousand drinks, the smears spread by the nightly cleaning, the repository for the evidence of a night of convivial chat, the banter of a group, discussions descending as the alcohol flows. Cider, lager, vodka and coke the rounds add up as the music plays on. Tunes of yesteryear, soaring guitars and vocals over the crash of drums.

A rock pub then, a dying breed perhaps, leather clad, long haired, the denizens drink in groups or alone, the dark a commonality they share. No toe tapping trendy pop tunes here, serious songs for serious drinkers. The damaged, the desperate, the ones who never fitted in.

I feel at home here in my little group, isolated yet included. A shared bond of music, of passion, of anger. These are the people you cross the street to avoid, the ones you talk about….and they are me…

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