Westwood Regular.

I went to the Westwood pub last night with Dave and his other mate who is also called Craig. We’re talking away at the table and having a laugh and then Dave’s dads’ mate, Scott comes over and sits with us. This is Monday night, but the guy tells me he was working over the weekend, so I don’t judge too harshly that the guy is a drunken mess.

Scott is about late thirties possibly early forties by my estimation, he has barley any teeth, is unshaven and wears a union jack baseball cap. A typical example of people who drink in the Westwood. I freely admit to being a snob, but, as it was someone David knew I resisted my impulse to leave and sat a talked to the guy.

He was a raciest, and a ned, and talked about his love for ‘ecies’.

If you don’t know me too well, or if the subject has not come up, I hate drugs. All drugs. They are a cancer on the world and people that take then are week and pathetic things that shouldn’t be breathing my air. If I had a friend that overdosed of ecstasy I would not cry for them. That being said, if someone can give up drugs I have respect for that. It’s a hard thing to do and plus they have realised that they are better than that.

Given that information, you’ll understand my disgust, my revulsion and my desire to slaughter this fucking loser when he pulls out a little bag of 'coke' and starts rubbing in on his gums.

Dave was at the bar and Craig was at the toilet so neither of them knew. I would have got up to leave right then and there, but I couldn’t move. I was furious I could feel my ears burning my face was so hot. I stayed for half an hour more, David went to the bar again, Craig to the jukebox, and as I was putting my coat on the little turd informed me he was going to the toilet with his ‘good friend Charlie’

I will never step foot in that pub again, in fact the only reason I’ll even go near it will be to torch the fucker and its piece of shit patrons to the ground.