I been hangin’ out at the Silver Fish a lot this week. I’m off work for awhile on account a the beatin’ Joe gave me over me settin’ the couch on fire. I ain’t in the hospital or anything, I mean it ain’t nuthin’ serious – just a couple a black eyes, a broken nose, a busted lip, a couple a cracked ribs, a punctured lung, a concussion, an a’ strangulated testicle – but it does gimme a lotta free time fer the next month or so. Ahhh, it don’t get much sweeter than this, now do it?
Anyways for those a youse who ain’t regular readers a ma’ blog, (an’ by the way, youse can go fuck yerselves if ya ain’t) the Silver Fish is this pub that I discovered a couple a months ago. I guess it’s what the American’s would call a “dive” (editor’s note: actually the term “roach infested shit-hole” is a more accurate description.) But it’s got a certain charm to it, an’ for me it’s become something of a second home.
The cool thing about the Silver Fish is that it’s reliable, y’know? Every time I comes in, I see the same three or four old geezers sittin’ at the same exact spots at the bar, starin’ into the same ol’ drinks day after day, an’ never sayin’ a word. The landlord, Ernie, is always behind the bar wipin’ off a pint glass wit’ the same moldy ol’ tea towel, or killin’ a cockaroach wit’ the palm of his bare hand an’ wipin’ it across the front a his shirt. An’ at 9:30 every Friday night, you can be sure to see Doris – this 50 year-old prositute with no teeth, lopsided boobs an’ an this thing growing out a the side a her neck- stumble in offerin’ the fellas hand jobs for 3 quid a piece. An at least twice a week, the same two junkies that hang out outside the joint will get into a vicious knife fight that ends up with one a the cops sent ta break it up endin’ up in the emergency room. It all happens like clock work, an’ there’s just something comforting about that.
Only problem with the place is that there ain’t any chicks in there. Well, okay, there’s Doris, an once in awhile some dodgy-looking guy in a shell-suit, with a bit of giro money ta spend will wander in wit’ his date – a drunk an’ heavily pregnant 14 year old with a greasy ponytail an’ a shiner under her left eye. But I mean, there ain’t no real hot babes here. It’s okay for now, ‘cos I can’t pop a decent boner ‘til my left nut heals, but that ain’t gonna be for long, an’ once that happens I’m in serious trouble. I’m not kiddin’. I mean, how the hell am I ever gonna get laid if there ain’t no decent puzzy in here? Doris’s hands are like sand paper. I might have ta go someplace else, an I don’t really wanna do that.
So I mention this to Ernie one time.
“Aye, ah think you’ve got a point there, mate,” he says. “Ah’ve been trying ta think o ways to class the ol’ pub up a bit anyways, get some more punters through the door.”
“Exactly,” I says. “Don’ get me wrong, I love this place, but it don’t really draw in the younger crowd much, no babes.”
A water bug scuttles across the counter between us an’ wit’ a loud slap, Ernie crushes the bug wit’ the palm of his hand. He flicks the dead bug across the bar and it lands in a bowl of nuts. Then he wipes his hand on a towel he’s been usin’ to wipe down pint glasses. He looks around the nearly empty pub and shakes his head.
“Aye, Brad, ah’ve got some real, right mingers comin’ in here.”
“Ya need a gimmick or something, like a theme night.”
“Like what?”
“I dunno. Howzabout a Indian night…a whatchacallit? A Bollywood Night? Chicks cream their pants fer shit like that.”
“Okay, okay wot’s a ‘Bollywood Night?’”
“I dunno…somethin’ ta do with Indian food an’ dancin’ an shit.”
Ernie thinks about this for a second, then shakes his head.
“Naw, naw. Do you know how to make curry, ‘cos ah sure don’t. Besides, ah don’ wanna bunch a Pakkis in ma pub. They’re a dodgy lot. Next think ye know they’ll be startin’ an Al Kaydah terrorists cell here an try ta nuke half a Glasga. Rest assured, ma friend, ah’ll be havin’ no part o that lot.”
I raise up my hands an’ try ta cut him off before he goes off on one.
“Okay, okay, no Bollywood night, then. But ya gotta think a something.”
Ernie makes a go for the bowl of nuts sittin’ on the counter a couple feet from us an’ pulls it towards him. He grabs a handful an’ tosses ‘em into his mouth. He offers me the bowl but I shake my head no. I’ll stick with my beer, thank you.
“Ah’ve got it,” he says. “How aboot a arm wrestlin’ tournament?”
“I don’t think yer gonna bring in too many chicks wit’ an arm wrestlin’ contest, Ern.”
“No?”
“Well, think about it, how many arm wrestlin’ wimin do ya know?”
“Margaret.”
“Besides yer wife.”
Ernie chews this over for a coupla seconds.
“Aye, ah suppose yer right.”
“Yeah, I am.”
I finish my beer and order another one. When Ernie returns with a fresh pint, I goes, “I think I got it.”
“Oh?”
“What do ya think a speed datin?”
Ernie scowls and slams his fist on the counter.
“No! Absolutely not!”
“Why, what the hell’s wrong with speed datin’?”
“Ah’ve got enough trouble as it is wit’ those junkies outside. Ah’ll be havin’ no DRUGS in ma PUB!”
“Huh? What the hell are you….”
“Ah said NO!”
“But I think you’ve …..
“NO! An if ya bring up the soobject again ah’ll kick ye oot a ma pub, ya fookin’ junkie bastard.”
“Okay, I hear ya. Christ, Ern, just forget I mentioned.”
Ernie an’ I spent most of the rest of the afternoon thinkin’ bout ways to bring in the poontang. But so far we had nuthin’, nada, zilch, zip, zero, jack shit. Every time one of us came up with an idea for a theme night, the other would shoot it down. Speed dating, foam party, rave night, male strippers, female strippers, transgender strippers, book club, movie club, TV club, chess club, club sandwich club, fancy dress, 80’s night, 70’s night, 40’s night, poker, blackjack, disco, bring your daughter to drink night…all of it got shot down. I even had this idea about bringin’ in a giant fish tank filled with sharks an’ manta rays an’ shit and having a deep-sea fishin’ night. I thought it was cool as fuck, but Enrie shot that one down, too; sayin’ something about it being unimpractical or somethin’.
This was gettin’ seriously bad. Shit, we had to do somethin’. Bad enough having to lay low on the lady action while my pecker gets better, but the threat of a continuous dry spell loomin’ over me even after I’m healed, well, that’s just too much for a guy like me to bear. An’ it definitely ain’t gonna be no picnic for them poor, deprived ladies.
“Ach, it’s just no use, mate,” Ernie says. “Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m pretty wiped out anyways. This de..di..dilaudid, this stuff that the doc’s gave me for my ribs gets me pretty loopy, especially after a couple a pints.”
I was just about to call it a night and head on home when it suddenly happened: Doris staggered inta the pub, hanging off the shoulder of some old fella. He was just as drunk and ugly-looking as Doris. The couple stumbled over to the bar an’ the fella ordered a couple a pints a superlager, while Doris loudly announced that she was gonna go take a shit. While she was away in the ladies’ room, the fella started hummin’, quietly at first an’ then gradually building up to full on singin’. Next thing ya know he was shoutin’ at the top of his lungs, I mean really beltin’ it out:
“And we can build this thing together, stand in stone forever, nothing's gonna stop us now.
And if this world runs out of lovers we'll still have eachother.
Nothing's gonna stop us, nothing's gonna stop us now.”
Then suddenly, it hit us, like a sign from God. I looked at Ernie an’ Ernie looked at me and nodded. We knew what we had to do; one word –KARAOKEE.
End of part I
Next week: ‘The Singin’ Silver Fish’, or ‘That’s Not My Wife, That’s Karaokee’
