Four pound fifty.
Decent price, all things considered
I've been to worse pubs
The head of foam's a bit flat
But do I care?
It's a pint, for fuck's sake -
not a work of art.
Paul's acca didn't come through
at the weekend
and his bird is pissssseeddd
at him.
"That money was meant to go
towards a new wardrobe,"
he mimics.
He itches his brow, laughs it off.
We laugh in jovial support.
Ian got with two women in Eamonn's
on Saturday.
One of them was pretty fit, he remarks.
The other not so much: he was much
drunker at the time he necked her.
Ian's a promiscuous guy - no holds barred
I'd be afraid of him
and his licentious tendencies.
Jay's car is falling to pieces
and he caught speeding last week.
The letter came through his letterbox
You know, with the monochromatic snapshot
And the timestamp.
The anger towards it seems to have stayed
in his chest.
A semi-permanent grimace twitches at the corners
of his lips.
He is not looking forward to paying the fine
or sending his motor in for its MOT.
Darren's body is ****** twenty four years old
and joinery has rightly shafted him.
His back creaks like the houses he repairs and
renovates.
You can hear the gas whisper from his joints as
he gesticulates.
Fighting sobriety sobers his pain.
But he'll be back after the weekend,
with his toolbox and that feigned,
pained smile of his.
Thomas talks of the smart trainers
he bought in the city centre, and the nice watch
he ordered online. Also the Stone Island jumper
he found on sale at some secret outlet.
His wages make ours squirm in comparison.
Reeking of cash.
He'll get the next round in and in some ways,
he's glad to do it.
Back at the bar and the bartender
is arguing with some drunkard who
refutes the four pound fifty cost of his
favourite lager.
"It was four pound twenty a fortnight ago!"
he slurs with an old dog's tongue.
I sigh.
The bartender throws up a frustrated hand
and tends to my order.
A four pound fifty pint.
I sigh again.
2d ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 8:33 AM UTC
Four pound fifty.
Decent price, all things considered
I've been to worse pubs
The head of foam's a bit flat
But do I care?
It's a pint, for fuck's sake -
not a work of art.
Paul's acca didn't come through
at the weekend
and his bird is pissssseeddd
at him.
"That money was meant to go
towards a new wardrobe,"
he mimics.
He itches his brow, laughs it off.
We laugh in jovial support.
Ian got with two women in Eamonn's
on Saturday.
One of them was pretty fit, he remarks.
The other not so much: he was much
drunker at the time he necked her.
Ian's a promiscuous guy - no holds barred
I'd be afraid of him
and his licentious tendencies.
Jay's car is falling to pieces
and he caught speeding last week.
The letter came through his letterbox
You know, with the monochromatic snapshot
And the timestamp.
The anger towards it seems to have stayed
in his chest.
A semi-permanent grimace twitches at the corners
of his lips.
He is not looking forward to paying the fine
or sending his motor in for its MOT.
Darren's body is ****** twenty four years old
and joinery has rightly shafted him.
His back creaks like the houses he repairs and
renovates.
You can hear the gas whisper from his joints as
he gesticulates.
Fighting sobriety sobers his pain.
But he'll be back after the weekend,
with his toolbox and that feigned,
pained smile of his.
Thomas talks of the smart trainers
he bought in the city centre, and the nice watch
he ordered online. Also the Stone Island jumper
he found on sale at some secret outlet.
His wages make ours squirm in comparison.
Reeking of cash.
He'll get the next round in and in some ways,
he's glad to do it.
Back at the bar and the bartender
is arguing with some drunkard who
refutes the four pound fifty cost of his
favourite lager.
"It was four pound twenty a fortnight ago!"
he slurs with an old dog's tongue.
I sigh.
The bartender throws up a frustrated hand
and tends to my order.
A four pound fifty pint.
I sigh again.
Here, I reflect on male language and topics of discussion. We speak very vapidly and stay ignorant of the sentimental. Sentimentality is inefficient and overtly confrontational, in our eyes anyway. These stanza take place on the precipice of deeper conversation, which does occur and unveils the truth dormant underneath. I try to satirise by being very literal and hope you, as a reader, can see past the shallow veneer I portray.