…will you please fuck off for me.

I didn’t come to the pub to watch your white middle-aged dreadlocked arse jump around and bang a tambourine for two hours. I came to listen to the guy on the acoustic guitar and enjoy a few beers with my friends. I’m simply amazed the guy actually playing the guitar has yet to beat you with a spare instrument.

Surely the guitarist must hate you more than me? And I want to hit you so hard we’d both cry. But it seems you’re now so pissed you’ve fallen into a bit of a drunken stupor. Thank fuck for that. Two songs without interruption or your interpretation of a Native American raindance.

Oh shit.

You’re up again.

Clearly the musicians rendition of Hotel California has had some sort of Red Bull effect on you and has pulled you back from the brink of the coma I was hoping you were about to enter.

What sort of socially inadequate arsehole takes a tambourine to a pub anyway?

“Wallet? Check. Car Keys? Check. Tambourine? Check.”

Now he’s dancing around like the hyperactive hippy he is, to a rendition of Vic Reeves hit record Dizzy. And his tambourine playing is out of time. Just how musically retarded must you be in order to fail at tambourine playing?
I’ve never felt like glassing anyone before, but if he looks over in our direction again and shakes his rattle at us with that inane grin of his I swear I’ll do him some harm.

Eventually he goes home, well, unless he’s not wearing an elaborate disguise and he really is a homeless person.

If 60’s hippy’s hadn’t matured, this is what they’d be today. Complete cunts.

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