I’m in my favourite hole, the remains of last nights tips sit half drunk in front of me, absent mindly staring at the wall using my teeth to pick out glass from the hard skin of my already scarred hands, this bar has no windows which suits me I’m hiding from autumns over-rated glamour.

I have work in exactly four hours and fifteen minutes, a thought that is becoming less daunting with every swallow. A parade of laughable rock poser clowns have just left the pub, kissing and backslapping their way up the stairs like the Z list celebrities they both hate and secretly long to be. It’s sad to think that wearing black and having long hair is no longer shocking enough for these people, that they feel obliged to look as if a couler blind five year old was allowed to dress them. Or maybe I’m just getting old. Coming to this place is like taking a long relaxing bath in the past, safe and familiar, ok faces change but the arch-types don’t, over there you have the fading poodle rockers, next to the fat kids turned Goths are the obligatory rich kids slumming it, and at the end wearing only tatty denim, leather waistcoat and very bad tattoos is the resident psychopath who likes to think of himself as a “character” but really just an annoying old rocker, far past his prime that took to many blows to the head stage diving to Megadeath.

There is a lot of pretension in here, but at least its honest pretension, a joke we’re all in on.

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