So there we were, in a pub strategically named after a piece of local government infrastructure formerly in the vicinity. It was about 3.45am. I was sitting with the lovely Miss M, with the long blonde locks. The lights in this fine establishment are brighter than in the old days, but they still turn them up a bit more when its about time to go.
At this point, an older gentleman, about 5ft 5, ambled up to us, and in a soft irish brogue said "gargle snel irl'be nice me jinners". Pardon? "Oh, needle be sivving gryne ee me hyhdle names Brian". Well good evening Brian. Beatific smile from our wee man. Have an nice night Brian, and a good weekend. Brian ambles off.
Take two: Tall, young-ish, perhaps uni post-grad, bops up towards our post by the wall. Does the little choo-choo train arms dance for sec, looks at me, looks at Miss M, smiles, raises eyebrows, then jauntily cocks head towards the door. We look slightly mistified. The bouncer is making the first polite round-up of the punters. This fellow boogies a little more then, with total composure, drops the line, "C'mon, ladies. Hurry up." Miss M and Aunty B can no longer handle it and collapse laughing, and have to hold onto each other, wiping away the tears. Valiant effort, dancing boy.