Grim... wrote:
I used to DJ every Friday in a pub called the Bald Faced Stag in East Finchley, not a million miles from Brent Cross.
Ooh, the Bald Faced Stag. Me and a mate wandered in there one night, and my mate ended up playing pool for cash with some obvious regulars. There's six of them. I end up holding the pot (£600!), and so you can gauge the general tone, the one playing shouts at his mate "Get between that facker (me) and the door. If he moves, break 'is fackin' legs".
My friend isn't someone who often makes himself popular with random people of the lary variety. He's a snooker player over and above a pool player, and he's playing tricky little shots the whole way through (tucking the white behind his colours, that sort of thing), and his opponent is getting more and more furious. My mate finally wins, and his opponent is then jumping up and down on the table, smashing the cue into the baise over and over again. We run, money in hand. We run, and run, and run.
I don't live in North London any more.
_________________
GoddessJasmine wrote:
Drunk, pulled Craster's pork, waiting for brdyime story,reading nuts. Xz