Accept, welcome guests, the apologies of your barman for being such a grumpling old bastard, but today is the Sabbath and thus the day for which Lord Byron prescribed 'sermons and soda-water.' As the day plundered our mood with its foul light and pointless noise, Mister Ted and your landlord thought we'd rather chew glass than entertain company, and indeed would feel better afterwards, but regarding your doleful and bleary expressionless visages feel bound to ensure that the bar is opened and the mood perked with some special unguents with a sprightly alcohol percentage and a slice of fucking lemon. Who's here? Debs, who looks as though a tarmac gang have been using her face for a doormat. Pete, who wears all the tragedy of Stepney on his face and is planning to share his headache with the first person to look him in the eye. Your barman, who remains aggravatingly beautiful and wise and lithe. No Shady, but we shall come to that in my time. Mr Once-a-Month slept here last night and looks none the better for it, in fact if he doesn't sort out his romance fairly sharpish he'll be growing out of his suit.

It has been mentioned that the jukebox here at Mike's is a little restricted in its appetites, and so we have been indulging in all sorts of musical experimentation. An attempt to dance to hip-hop reminded your barman that his fondness of hops has left his hips a little podgy for throwing any shapes that do not resemble a settee with a fat owner. Talking of which, as I'm afraid I was, there was a wonderful show on the tellyvision evening last. It is in the mould of Esther Rantzen's ghastly indignities wherein retarded members of the public are rewarded for petty acts of courage and smugly resolute application to all manner of horrifyingly well-meant deeds with trite medallions of no discernable worth whatever. In this version, they cheer unfortunates who have burst a testicle in a roofing accident or blinded their niece with a poorly aimed macaroon at some foul wedding reception with interludes gloating over the dismay of a truly obese and mentally unusual harpy who is apparently stunned and funnel-fed melted lard while we sympathise with the toddlers falling into puddles and pensioners crippling themselves in vaguely comic accidents involving ladders and shameless mugging to the camera (which is invariably operated by a chortling loon with an advanced case of Parkinson's). Pete suggested that all weekend television should afford such empathetic inclusiveness to the disabled. It would surely be an hilarious show to stage Blind Date with real sightless people, for instance. We might even be fortunate enough to see the realisation of that Robert Newman gagette "You see that Stephen Hawking? He's your favourite gladiator." Who knows.

Anyhow, back to the musical issues of the day. Shady was into roots 'n' culture, which indeed provides some especially jaunty numbers. There's a rather good collection of original 'tracks' as my emancipated brethren and I refer to them that have recently been purloined by that funny little bald man Mobile, who is surely the world's most curious activist. Refusing to allow his thievery to represent burgers and bangers in a cheery light, he nevertheless endorses without let powerful cars that presumably are not delivered with environmentally friendly batteries and jaywalking-child detection software. Please don't misunderstand your barman - the policy at Mike's is not to give an eighth of an inch of fuck about the environment, but what we do attempt to discourage is hypocrisy, because it's dull. I leave it to your somewhat gentle intelligences to discover the amply proportioned boxed set full of these things at

Right, endorsements of our own now. Since we pretend no loyalties or principles at all, Pete and self find no problem in heartily endorsing the following products. They are all enormously destructive to the flesh, but wonderfully enlightening to the soul. Who wants to live forever, after all? Imagine being surrounded by cunts like me for more than threescore and ten. Fuck!

Lucky Strikes. They are a creation of genius. They taste good, they deepen the voice and smell great on your clothes. They soothe, they relax and they irritate the fuck out of people with weak chests and dry eyes. Utterly wonderful. Jack Daniels. Your barman awoke in such an unfriendly humour this morning because of this naughty fellow. It tastes better than any other American whiskey. It comes in a cool bottle. It transports you effortlessly from the responsibility and pain of sobriety to the louche, languid life of the lush. Who could ask for more? Well, if you're a glutton your barman recommends Waitrose frankfurters (tinned in brine) jammed into a nice white bun with as little fibre as you can manage, rocket lettuce and a good dollop of mayonnaise (check out the World of Mayonnaise, invented and maintained by Brentford's premier comedian alcoholic for your egg-based edification).

Okey, toots. You guys have been bending the barman's ear on all sorts of matters, and we open the advice counter and push the optics for the benefit of our friends in the West Country first of all. Indeed, once upon a time a visit to the barman's lair would lead to watching dawn break with a bottle of wine in one hand and one of those dizzy cigarettes in the other on Bangor beach. These days, it is the weekday insult of attending the office and remaining sober until lunchtime that gets in the way of such unrestrained habits. You have the barman's word, however, that with practice and encouragement you will again be able to administer punitive quantities of liver-fucking unguents and rest from the weariness of the world. It is indeed unmanly to behave yourself and it is for the good of everyone that establishments such as Mike's remain open for instruction in temptation as well as to advise on the manifold miseries that should encourage all but the dullest to seek the bottle with alacrity and vim.

Advice comes from the Red Professor, with whom the management have enjoyed many a barman's holiday in the twee giftshop beauty of Oxford.

Since the only God that Einstein recognised was in the admiration of the structure of the world, since the structure of the brain creates the mind, mind creates science, mind creates love, since Huxley found this interesting and got caned on some Island somewhere, since the whole neuroscientific lot that I am scamming my way into are looking for a decent state to compare with consciousness to find out what the human soul is, my point is that the only Rational way to understand God, the Soul, Love, Society and ourselves is by drinking guinness until your shit runs black. Unfortunately this also destroys your mind since booze is a neurotoxin. So to gain full understanding means killing yourself. The only way to find out that there truly is no afterlife requries mortality.

Don't just sit there looking impressed, Pete. You haven't got a fucking clue what he's on about. Mr Once-a-Month, however. You know, don't you, sir?

Fuck me. That Shady Robinson's death should come in a postscript. Well, it was a swift going, so let's not dwell on it. He took a few bad gut-punches last weekend, and while we were doing a few tequilas back at the bar he moaned and there was a sound like a stabbing and he rolled forward. A whole load of blood and drink came out of his mouth and he whispered something earnestly into my ear, but I didn't hear what it was. Once the filth had fucked off and the ambulancemen had wheeled out his body, we sat there in a kind of stunned silence, sipping at our shots. The next day, Pete went to clear out his flat and we had a wake here at Mike's Place. I put out some scotch eggs and twiglets and everyone drank for free. Regulars only. Pete had some letters he'd got from Shady's den. Now, as we all now, Debs is a pissed old rubbish with a voice like a popped cyst and a face like a plumber's toolbag. But she loved someone, and that made her okey in my book. These letters were to all sorts of people, and one of them was to Loose Sue, who Shady knocked around with. He was giving her a tender "fuck off"and making a poetic meal of it. Fed up with her spending his money on herself and her affections on everyone else, he was going to leave her for Debs, who might be an old alky and less able to sing than her eagerness to practice might suggest, but she was loyal and sweet and he couldn't stop thinking on her. Debs fucking wept buckets but stumbled out looking cool like she hasn't in years.

We're sweeping up the glasses and emptying the ashtrays into the street, Pete lights a cigarette. Dawn is just creaking up.
"Nice touch, Pete. You done a nice thing last night, you romantic old cunt. Let yourself down a wee bit on the wording, of course. When did you ever hear Shady use a word like 'sweet'?"
"Didn't she look good on the news, though?"
"Aye. Got an itch in my shorts I didn't think I'd get over her ever again."
"So there you go. Doesn't matter if it's true or not, does it?"
For a six-foot cudgel of muscle and scar tissue, Pete occassionally gets the subtle things just so.

This week's heroes are Kate, for a demonstration of taste and judgement beyond compare. The various members of the gang who enjoyed the League of Gentlemen, the man in the audience with the amusing laugh and the prick who hilariously attempted to extend the joke beyond its shelf-life. The villains having been staying the fuck out of our way as we hoped, whether this is happy accident or kindness on their parts (which we hope shrivel, rot and fall off) we couldn't care less. Okey, you funsters, we've run out of interest for another week. If it works, and this is very unlikely because I'm falling-down pissed and can write Chinese more fluently than Hatefully Tedious Moaning Language, then there's a form now so you can irritate the management with less effort than it took you to read this week's rant. If it doesn't work, don't write in because we're not fucking interested.

Go on, pester a busy barman. You fucking cunt.

I'm a regular and I want more bar-room tales.
I'm a regular and I want more poems, especially if they're written by people more talented than the barman.
I'm a regular and I want more advice and product endorsements. When I fill out consumer questionnaires, I always mention Mike's Place. Do I get a free drink?
I'm here by accident but will leave my address so you can invite me back.
I thought I was bored until I came to Mike's Place. Now I'm fucking suicidal. You tedious cunt.
I'm confused. I got lost while looking for a site about boats and now I'm going.
You're a talentless cunt, Mike and I hate your website. I'm going back to rummaging my cods and sniffing my sister's pants.
I am a sexy student and want to receive private mail from Mike. (8"cock)
I am an unrepentant alcoholic, practising misanthropist and generally a gloomy, self-pitying cunt. I will never feel at home anywhere but Mike's Place. Cheers.

I can't resist the opportunity to add my fucking tuppence worth.

If you've missed any redecorations, rummageThe Cellar, and make sure you're on the mailing list so you don't miss out again. Or don't. We can obviously manage without your custom.
Okey, that's time, ladies and gentlemen, and remember - people who say hard drinking doesn't solve anything are lying, clueless cunts. Now get out of here.

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