Eric Bristow Read Online Free PDF Page B

ran it. One of these lads had a false arm. All our darts team knew about it, apart from Brian. We were all in the pub one night having a bit of after-time and Brian got a bit rough with this gay and started pulling him about. He was having a laugh, but going a bit over the top, as he was inclined to do when he’d had a few beers. He ended up pulling this gay by the arm and it came off in Brian’s hand. Brian just stared at this arm in bewilderment. His face went white and his mouth opened but no words came out. He honestly thought he’d pulled this bloke’s arm off. He looked at it for about half a minute and said, ‘What the fuck?’
    The rest of us were gone. I was on the floor rolling about with laughter. It was the funniest thing I have ever seen. In the end the one-armed gay landlord said, ‘Give me my arm back,’ snatched it off Brian and put it back in the socket. Brian looked at him like a dog does when it’s trying to understand his owner, his head tilting one way and then the other. I was desperately trying not to wet myself.
    But Brian was the Red Lion. He was its main character, the guy you always looked forward to seeing when he walked through the door, and he sorted out a few problems there.
    We had this old bloke in the pub and he was a real nasty sod, a bit mean like TV’s Steptoe. On Thursday nights, when the Irish came to the pub with their money, four of them would play cards. Every week they went through the same routine: they’d play cards, drink, drink drink, fight, fight, fight, make up, go to the bar, large vodka, large vodka, large vodka, large vodka, and back to the card table. This old bloke was the pot man, which meant he collected the empties in return for a couple of free pints. When these Irish got so pissed they didn’t really know what they were doing, or when they were fighting each other, this old bloke would pinch one of their vodkas and down it in one before putting the glass back on the table. Brian, who occasionally worked behind the bar at this time, spotted this old sod doing it, so he got a vodka glass and filled it with white cleaning fluid and put it to the right of where this pot man normally stood at the bar. Sure enough this old sod spotted what he thought was an untouched double vodka, picked it up and downed it in one. His face said it all. He was in agony, it burnt his mouth and his throat and he only just managed to open the toilet door to throw up. There was spew and excrement all over the place. It nearly killed him, but it did teach him not to steal anyone’s drink again.
    Brian also taught this other bloke a lesson. He was a white witch, a real weirdo who played darts for us, and he had this dog which he kept in the back of his van and never let out. This mad dog wasn’t treated right. It’d get a tin of dog food and some water in the back of the van, and would be left in there twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Its muck would be thrown out of the van into the road. This used to upset me, so I’m glad he got his comeuppance. Brian got him because he was a greedy sod. He played in the Thursday league for us and at the end of the game the sandwiches came out. This bloke would take more than his fair share, and then if there were four sandwiches left at the end he’d grab them all and stuff them down his throat. This happened week after week until Brian decided enough was enough. He got some toothpicks, snapped them into pieces and put the little bits in the sandwiches, warning the rest of us not to touch them. This white witch immediately went for these sandwiches, started chewing them, and screamed as a toothpick went straight through the roof of his mouth. There was blood everywhere. He was in agony, desperately trying to prise this pick out of his mouth but having no luck. He had to go to hospital in the end. It taught him never to steal the sandwiches again.
    Later in life Brian became a train driver, but that did him in. A couple of people