All the men in different stages of lives murdered by the drop. Kids running with Taytos, dad watching match, stands paralysed at door when they get up to go, just another few seconds. Women in late 40's celebrating freedom - no more snoring, the whole bed to myself - The pub is a tavern, it's the cornerstone where two streets meet. You have to ask to be buzzed into the corridor for the ladies. Tiled steps, so old fashioned, like an ancient school or hospital. The jacks itself, just past a dark door. Two cubicles, one says red on it's latch. Hear shouts from out in the streets.
A middle ager fiddles with his mobile, he's burly and stands to go piss when the auld drunk comes over to join him, with his two glasses, a whiskey glass with ice, and a glass of water - the gentle barman tells him to drink up quick now, like a child. Man on my left is quiet, I don't see his face, even on his way back from his smoke. There's a gang of french kids in for a quiet few, a game of cards. They drink slowly. Screen rolled up and curtains up, lights lit when the rugby ends. Barman standing on the couch beside us to get the blind lifted. The auld drunk gives out to the extra light, clawed hands shield his eyes. Man on right looks sober, but can barely talk, slurs his order, gestures at his glass. Auld drunk sings to himself. Middle ager rings his kids, confers on a good time to visit. Hangs up, but keeps flicking at the phone anyway, grimacing as the drunk tries to talk to him.
Auld drunk eventually drinks up and goes, a soft zig zag to the door. Another younger man, ok looking, smiles a sophisticated, sardonic, sarcastic smile after him. He's just a local, on his way out to meet his friends, on his way to better things, the smile says. But his hand is held aloft - spilling the beans - another pint here, on my own with my mates - middle ager and silent man leave. I drain my beer. Everywhere in town is jammed. Go out to join the flow. They're everywhere, you just don't normally see them so clear.
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