Royalty

He is there – again – the ageless barfly sat like a sore king at the wet-ringed table where he fondles his tide-marked pint of beer in the rooted grip of his right hand and

with each sup he plans to swallow time – kept to Greenwich by his amber hour-glass – well drunk – but he is still able to command the Queen’s English – words not troops that is!

He is the cliché – the grounded boozer who wills his wide-smiled laughter and loud intrusions upon more innocent patrons – virgins in his game – those who do not know how he plays the room

.. Don’t take the adjacent seat – don’t be fooled by his schemes – of words and winks .. For them he prepares to over-deliver .. it is so well-known that he never listens by dint of his loudness and eyebrow animations ..

And a woman – and a man – scrape chairs out to sit across from him at his stained table – and he now turns – with his sips of time to take – and soon she is giggling at his crude stories whilst her silent man stares at his glass

After half an hour they stand to leave the scene – the man with a shoved handshake for the barfly – to quietly let the pub’s royal drunkard know that he is not wanting to fight – not tonight –

and the well-pissed king is left to drink on his own