In May I went down to the Army Officer Selection Board in Westbury. In Westbury there is a bar called The Angel. If you ever find yourself in Westbury, I insist you at least stick your head in, as I've yet to find another bar with such......character. After being told by the staff 'not' to go along for ourselves, I convinced the rest of my syndicate to go to this pub and have a cheeky pint to settle our nerves before the next days events. Suited and booted, we head out to the bar. As we get to The Angel I stop to answer my phone, so the guys go in without me. I finish the phone call and walk into the pub. Imagine the cantina from Star Wars, but with less teeth and more farmers. As I step through the door what I can only describe as a tramp grabs my shoulder and says 'You sure you're in the right pub son?' 'From what I can tell I would refer to this as a 'tramp hole', but if you want to call it a pub, yes, I am in the right one.' (I furtively look around for someone from my syndicate, and spot one at the bar) 'Yes, I am in the right pub.' 'Are you sure?' 'Yes.' 'Ok then. Give my regards to your mum.' 'Sure.' I then buy my pint and follow the rest of the guys out into the 'Beer Garden'.
It was an alley. With three benches in it, a car, and a staircase up to someone's flat. Also full of farmers/tramps. So we start chatting about topics for the discussion we had to do the next day, and try to ignore the dirty looks we're getting and the one woman crying loudly in the corner. Until she gets up, screams 'Fuck you all, I'm going to kill myself!' and then staggers into what I assume was the toilet, but didn't dare go anywhere near in case I caught syphillis. At this point I'm having a great time, I love pubs like this. The rest of the guys, however, are starting to look quite uncomfortable.
A bloke with two teeth comes over and asks us if we're in town for AOSB. The rest of the guys give him one word answers and then pointedly start the conversation again. 'Fuck it, why not speak to this guy?' I think to myself and start speaking to him. Turns out he'd been in the Army for twenty years or so, blah blah blah, nice guy. The conversation is going well until a face leers up over his shoulder. My immediate reaction of 'FUCK FUCK FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT OH FUCK KILL IT WITH FIRE' slowly turned into 'Wank, I think it wants to talk to me' when she (turns out it was the crying woman from earlier) slurs 'Hi Steve, who's your friend?'. He introduces me, and then winks and promptly fucks off. 'YOU MOTHER FUCKER STEVE! I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE LIKE THIS! SOLID C YOU CUNT!' I mentally scream after him as my syndicate mate's looks of polite disdain turn into abject horror. I put a brave face on and continue the conversation. We work through the usual rigmarole of 'So you're in the Army?' 'Not quite etc etc' which, from the look of utter incomprehension on her face, went completely over her head. She then asks 'Do you want to see my tattoo?' At this point I can almost hear my syndicate chums silently screaming 'NOOOOOOO!' whereas I think 'Fuck it, in for penny, in for a pound.' 'Yeah, sure.' She begins to lift up her top, and as I realise this is how I die, she thankfully stops before it exposes more than her stomach. (Now the story gets a bit sad, and I want you all to understand that I genuinely feel sorry for this poor woman and what she went through. I'm not writing this to laugh at her, I'm writing this to laugh at the situation in general, me sat there in some grotty pub in a suit, her there, steaming drunk with her belly out.) 'It's a tattoo of my baby Jason's foot. I got it done after he died. It used to look really good but then I got fat and now it's all fucked up.' '.........right. You lose this conversation Thomas. What the fuck do you say to that?' 'No, it still looks really good. I'm sorry to hear about your baby, that's such a shame.' (At this point my syndicate have disappeared over the horizon.) 'Yeah, so I'm doing a charity photography exhibit with a photographer friend of mine who also lost her baby to raise money for cot death research.' 'Oh, that's really noble of you, whereabouts are you having it?' 'Australia.' '.....see if she didn't have the tattoo, this is where I would shout BULLSHIT! and run away.' 'Oh right, why there?' 'It's the only place that would put it on.' 'Fair cop. What kind of photography is it?' 'It's lots of abstract stuff to represent the pain we felt. My favourite one is when she clingfilmed me to a tree and then I pulled all these faces like I was in pain.' 'What. The. Fuck. Am I being Punk'd? Please let me be being Punk'd. This is nearly as bad as the time my cousin gave my phone number to a waitress and she told me she'd been raped. (I've only just remembered this story, I'll write it up at some point.)'
Just before my mind can full comprehend what the fuck is happening to me and the fact that I am now on my own with a woman who's looking at me with a look I can only describe as 'predatory' Staff Sergeant Keates appears out of nowhere, points at my socks and shouts 'Are you still wearing those fucking stupid socks Number 56? Get the fuck out of my pub!' 'HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH etc etc' Baby Foot Woman starts to speak 'Piss off love, stop hassling my cadets.' He winks, I make my way inside and towards the door. My Mum's long lost lover grabs me by the arm again. 'Leaving so soon?' 'Yes.' 'Well, send my love to your mum. She'll remember me.' 'That's just great. Are you my real dad?' 'Will do.'
I stagger out into the sunlight and feel freedom of a sort I imagine Mandela felt when he was finally released from prison.
So, if you ever find yourself in the town of Westbury, I implore you: Go to The Angel. You might die, but you'll have one hell of a story to tell when you reach the afterlife.
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