Mr Angry.

Continuing my 'Little Miss' series, I thought it only PC to include the odd, er, gentleman, here and there.

After a particularly stressful day at work yesterday, culminating in my early departure, before I said something that someone else would regret, I thought I'd pop into Churchill's for a nerve unjangling pint of ale.

One out of ten for my choice of calming venue!

There was a bunch of codgers in there who's total age must've come to about a thousand (four of them), one of whom seemed to have the idea that it was his quest to round upon everyone in the pub, and call them a cunt!

Nice!

I wonder (but not particularly hard) what his problem was?
I've seen the scruffy old git in there before, and I'm not entirely sure but I think he may have been the curator that smelled faintly of wee, from the IOTA gallery, before they got kicked out of the old monkey sanctuary.

Anyhow, luckily he didn't start on me, after the day that I'd had, otherwise I would've kicked him hard enough that he could've pointed at his own crutch and accused that of being a cunt, too!

Meanwhile, the staff were all cowering behind the bar, hopefully considering a career change for a job that they could actually cope with.

Must be something in the water, I suppose.