Scenes from the Bar

 *I'm drinking a pint of craft ale named "Road Tripping" in a bar in East Belfast. The beer is genuinely disgusting. I feel out of step with my fellow man in many ways, but not least in their greedy acceptance of the proliferation of tap-houses that have spread across the province like a rash on your nasty ass. If I were to believe in any conspiracy theory, it would be The Great Replacement of drinkable beer. 

"Road Tripping" tastes like someone tried to make Lucozade in a soda stream using the contents of a spittoon. I'm identifying top notes of wet straw and acid reflux. Am I drinking it? Of course I am! I paid for it. 

*Pleather flares appear to be fashionable. 

*From where I'm sitting I can see out across the road to "The Fat Burning Factory" which is a fitness studio, not a rendering plant. The "O" in Factory is a cog for some reason. No one goes in or out and the glass is opaque, so it has a real sense of mystery, in the way a paramilitary punishment room does. 

My favourite thing about The Fat Burning Factory is that it's "branded". It's not just "The Fat Burning Factory" it's "The Fat Burning Factory by Emilia Sandford". It's just a part of Emilia's extensive portfolio. 

*This bar seems to exist solely for random tattooed men to come in and use the toilet without making a purchase. Interesting business model. 

*A man with a beard, a man-bun and cycling shorts comes into the bar. He has mismatched, random tattoos on every limb. He looks like an old school desk; years of untutored, unrelated draftsmen working on the pale wood of his skin. He'd be an exquisite corpse, in every sense. 

*Another man appears. He has a moustache, a cycling helmet and is wearing a dry robe. He's wheeling an electric scooter across the floor. Where do these people come from? I thought the hardy, hearty people of Belfast - with their renowned tolerance for difference - would have slapped this sort of self expression out of him. He's calling the bar staff "Gentlemen". I couldn't get away with this shit. A fucking dry robe! With the words "dry robe" written on it. 

He's headed out to the beer garden, and he's shouted "Whoopsie!" in a high pitched voice, out of sight. 

*Bad jeans seem to be back, generally. Not to be confused with bad genes, which never went out of fashion. 

*There's a lovely May to December gay couple chatting to the bar staff. They're dressed identically, the older one shorter and grey. And paying. Matching haircuts. Dear. 

*People are really going along with this craft beer bollocks. They listen to the staff describing the tasting notes and provenance of each beer, and pouring them little tasting glasses and everyone pretends that each identical beer doesn't taste like hops and ear-wax. The bar staff are more like tour guides than pub servers. 

*I've been here for two hours and the girl opposite me, tapping away on her laptop, was here when I came in. She had a pint when I arrived and she still has half a pint. Going down smooth, then. 

*Man wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend "Never attack an atom - they make everything" is making appreciative noises at the bar. His wife has hair the colour of meths. 

*Still no one has gone in or out of The Fat Burning Factory (By Emelia Sandford).

*A Japanese woman is taking a selfie with her pint. She does the peace sign thing. 

*One of the members of staff changed into running gear and went off for a run. He came back again, disappeared, then reappeared dressed in a helmet, back pack and odd, clip-clopping plastic shoes, wheeling a bike through the pub. He rode away then came back, wheeled the bike back into the bar, wandered around in his little shoes, then rode off again. Is this the last I'll see of him? Who knows? It's exciting. He's like Columbo - just when you think you're rid of him, he's back again, irritating you. 

*I'm looking at a short, balding man. He's wearing sunglasses on his head, is decked out in a maroon t-shirt, knee length shorts, sockless trainers. He has the sort of rich natural tan that used to indicate you were of peasant stock and now means you are rich and untroubled by it. He stands with his hands behind his back. He looks like, and I mean exactly like, Edward VIII, Britain's traitor King. It's amazing. I can't stop looking at him. He's pacing impatiently, waiting for his Mrs Simpson to emerge from the toilets. When she does, she's a blandly attractive blonde, only slightly taller than him. 

I watch them leave - she opens the door for him and he walks through, arms still behind his back, like an ancient French patriarch playing boules. Such an Eddie 8 move. 

*As I'm leaving, I look up and there is a man attempting to get into The Fat Burning Factory (By Emilia Sandford). Or is he? He approaches the door, hovers at it, then walks away, coming back a minute later. And though he is wearing sports gear, he doesn't look like a gym bunny. He doesn't need to burn any fat. But the door opens and another man - skinny, hoodie and baseball cap combo - lets him in. The door closes. The mystery continues.   

Another day.