Prince of Wales and Big John

So, the Prince of Wales or P.O.W. Will I be going back to that boozer? I fucking doubt it! To be honest I heard a rumour I was barred… BARRED, ME? That dick who runs it is off his head… Prick!

It was a couple of weeks ago, I was sat in there filling in forms for housing. Ha! Kate is sat next to me on the sofa and she has that look in her eye. Yeah, so I said I wouldn’t drink during the day anymore but I wasn’t in there drinking, I was in there keeping a roof over my head.

Oh, apparently I should tell you what the P.O.W (Prince of Wales) is. I might have to tell Kate to stop looking over my shoulder – that could get annoying. The P.O.W is a boozer, you all know that, if you don’t you’re a fuck-tard. It’s one of the Wetherspooners, you know what I mean. Copy and Paste, plastic pubs. The beer is cheap and the place is full of people who don’t work. I hate the clientele, but I like paying under 3 quid for a Stella. The place is falling to bits now and the fake books on the crappy old bookcases don’t help. I suppose the place would have been quite a nice joint when it opened in the early nineties but it’s a shithole now.

Anyway, I was sat there filling in these forms. I was in a proper bad mood because the bitch in Job Centre Plus told me if the forms weren’t filled in and returned by the end of the day I would not get any rent. Bitch. So, and Kate doesn’t believe this shit, but rather go home and fill out the forms, I popped into the pub and started on them there. That meant I could pop them back in before I got the bus home – EASY!

It was all going to plan too until Big John waltzed into the fucking place. He’s a fat bastard, loud too and I watched him barge into the large open foyer below me… Sorry, should have told you already that I was sat at a table up on the balcony. Those Wetherspooners did love to make a pub out of an old theatre, I suppose the balcony bits were quite fancy too at some point. I sat up there because it was quiet, nothing else. Although if I’d have known what would happen I would have sat somewhere lower down.

Yeah and that fat git was shouting and screaming, wanting to know where some twat was. He was going mental and as he flew from table to table asking if anyone had seen ‘him’. I remember having a chuckle to myself, thinking that Big John was so thick, whoever the poor soul was he was looking for would have done a runner ages ago – I actually thought, sipping my lager, that no-one would be stupid enough to stay in that pub with that nutter gunning for them.

And then he looked up at me.

Fucking hell, I wont lie to you, I knew I was up shit creak then… Fucking hell, he was after me. Don’t you fucking move Brewer, he shouts and leaps up the stairs like three at a time. I didn’t even bother to tidy up the forms or drink the rest of my Stella. I upped and legged it but I didn’t get far before that fat git has his hands reached round my neck and is pushing me back towards the table I was sat at.

Where is he? He kept saying.

I know you know so just fucking tell me.

Big John had a face on him like a tin of tomatoes and not your cheap Tesco Own cheapos, where the tommies are shit excuse for red with smears of yellow and stuff, no these were like your posh plum tommies, you know the ones, over a quid at tin, like who would pay that much for tomatoes? A vien stuck out from the side of his head and his thick arm pushed me further and further into the balcony wall.

I tried to tell him I didn’t know who he meant. I did, I swear but he wouldn’t believe a single word that came out of my mouth. Called me a liar and everything. You’re his best mate, he never did anything without you knowing, so where is he?

And that is what stuck with me. Big John wanted to know about my best mate. Despite what happened after that, despite the week spent in hospital, Big John saying those words is what sticks in my head. My best mate is James… Kate has told me to use the correct grammer, that last sentence should read My best mate WAS James but that’s shit. He still is my best mate, regardless… End of.

So there I am, Big John is pushing my over the balcony. My body is more over the edge than anything. My legs are struggling to keep on the floor and old Fattie is pushing me further and further. That fucker, even if I knew about what he was on about I think he would still have sent me over.

The last thing I heard was a group of people running up the stairs and grabbing hold of Big John. Let him go, John, let the bastard go. But he’s strong, aint he, fucking strong. And with one hand he fended them off and with the other he held me. The balcony wall was getting in the way of my feet getting some proper grip. The men grabbing hold of John making matters worse. And then some twat punched him and I was let go. My heart jumped a nervous wreck of a beat and I fell. The last thing I saw as I tipped over the edge was four security types pile in to John like what was happening to me didn’t matter for fuck all.

And that is how I ended up in hospital. Because that fat twat wanted to play Inspector Cluedo with yours fucking truly. WANKER.

I smacked into the table below. I can remember hitting it but that is it. Nothing else, not until I am on the way to hospital in the back of a meat wagon. I panicked because I thought maybe John was in the ambulance with me but he wasn’t. It was just me and some tart in a green boiler suit. She wasn’t even tending to me, she just sat there talking through to her mate driving… Talking whilst looking at me in a self righteous way as if it was all my fault.