Tuesday, 20 December 2011

Music To Make Us Violent

Once again, another lunchtime drinking session has been ruined by the dross pouring from the jukebox, in our favourite pub.
Tony and me have already had our fill of seeing sickeningly happy people, pouring into the pub, getting excited about Christmas, and talking at the top of their voices about the fun they're going to have during the festive period.
The same people who find it necessary to pay good money to listen to such crap as Bing Crosby's White Christmas,  or some other example of seasonal drivel.
We asked Sid, the landlord of our favourite pub, if he could switch the jukebox off, or at the very least, remove the Christmas songs, and replace them with something more lively, like a few Iron Maiden or Sex Pistols classics.
Sid understood our concerns, and agrees that we are probably his most loyal customers, but as he said, he likes to think of his pub as a family pub, where parents can come with their children, sit by the open fire to warm themselves, enjoy a nice glass of wine, whilst listening to a Christmas carol.
I pointed out to Sid that his pub is probaby the least family friendly pub in London, because like us, he cannot tolerate small children running around the place, making a nuisance of themselves. Also, the last time I looked, I couldn't see the open fire Sid is so proud of, but only an electric radiator, which is never switched on, because he reckons too much warm air is bad for the planet. And as for his "nice" wine, Tony reckons that given the choice between a glass of  weed killer or the red wine Sid serves his customers, the weed killer seems a more attractive proposition.
Tony and me agree that at this time of year, even the sanest of individuals get caught up in the spirit of Christmas, and lose touch with reality.
Still, it's no good moaning, because as Tony said, we have only two options in life, when it comes to filling our spare time.
The first option is that we stay at home, shivering in our cold flat, whilst looking at the damp patches on the ceiling, or the second option is that we go to the pub, drink heavily, and only hope that nobody decides to play Bing Crosby's White Fucking Christmas!

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