Notes from The Salisbury

Christmas comes but once a year for most but for the regulars of the Salisbury it is celebrated twice. Rather like our beloved Queen having a second birthday. The first Christmas is celebrated in June when there is a fair-to-middling chance of good weather.  The bar area is bedecked with tinsel, baubles, mistletoe, a plastic skull left over from Halloween and assorted celebratory paraphernalia . The bar staff are dressed in black elf outfits and serve the merry throng with alacrity, the latest festive batch from the basement micro brewery. The effect is "Nightmare Before Christmas" meets "It's a Wonderful Life". The rowdy bunch of Santa's Slaves around the pool table consume copious cups of Alacrity. with Gusto. Gusto is the brand name of the vodka-like drink produced in the secret still in the void between the Salisbury and the adjacent business premises, "Pauline's Performing Poetic Prozzies". The door swings open, accompanied by a gust of ch...

Here in the Salisbury on a quiet but damp Bank Holiday weekend we meet Brian Wilson. (This one is nicknamed 'Guru' and not to be confused with the other Brian Wilson). He is sitting in his regular booth with his usual entourage of attractive, fawning young ladies. Brian is wise. Brian is a polymath. Brian has no time for the fat bloke on the quiz machine. At six feet in height and slender, he is rumoured to be 85 years old but is handsome and could easily pass for thirty something. In a certain light he looks a little like Jim Morrison. (The one out of Carter USM, not the other one). The Nick Cave lookalike barman glowers as he takes a towel to polish his glassware. Around Brian it is all lipstick, perfect teeth, nails and bushy bushy blonde hairdos. These will scare away all the cute Goth ladies that Nick likes so much. 'They wouldn't be tolerated back home in Transylvania' he mutters. Occasional peals of laughter from their direction punctuate the quiet bits b...

As Friday whirls around to meet us like an occasional friend we find ourselves ensconced in the Salisbury. Regular visitors will pick out familiar faces amongst the clientele. Kwacker is in the corner nursing a small port. Alfie Hoole is being edified by the fat bloke on the quiz machine (who has taken a break from said machine). Lemuel Cullen has had a falling out with the long-suffering Persephone. He will ultimately re-learn the error of his ways. Today we focus on a relative newcomer, one Tarquin Zanzibar. Affectionately known as Tarka to all that love him. He is tall and handsome, looks like James Dean, but a little 'otter. He is presently stood at the bar trying to convince the Nick Cave lookalike barman to give him samples of the fine whisky selection. Nick Cave is having none of it and insists he coughs up coin of the realm for a sample. "And not any of that foreign money that you tried last time mate". Persephone notices, everything, she mouths "large ...

Once again we find ourselves in the Salisbury Ale House, the pub that welcomes all. The pub that is tolerant and inclusive of the diversity of humanity. Except for the lesser-spotted tracksuited thunderclart. He can drink elsewhere. Today we meet Grizwald Chunter, or 'Griz' to his friends, at his customary spot on a stool right at the centre of the bar. He is sporting his camouflage trousers paired with a hi-viz jacket so that he is simultaneously hidden and easy to spot. Schrodinger's pisscan. Griz is drinking whiskey with a dark rum chaser and periodically utters his familiar cry of 'Owchuffinmuch?'. A cry that betrays his Sheffield roots. Griz is not in a happy place today. He craves company but his noxious emissions deter all but the bravest of people. He weeps as he remembers his lost love, a certain Letitia Squirm who has recently left him for a grave digger from Leicester. Distraught he is as he drains his glass and calls out for a refill. Persephon...

Another damp Manchester evening and we again find ourselves in the Salisbury, the hidden gem of a pub that welcomes all, regardless of creed or colour. Or species. The fat bloke on the quiz machine has just "rinsed it" for five English pounds and is gradually reinvesting his winnings in that trivial pursuit. Fat bloke is known by several different names but was named by his Marxist-Leninist mother as Ernesto Fidel Shufflebottom. Currently he answers to the name of Nigel, Destroyer of Empires and Scourge of the self-righteous. Or "Nige" for short. Nige is an actuary, a profession he fell into when he found the crazy world of accountancy too rich for his blood. However, as interesting as fat bloke's backstory may be, tonight we focus upon his bestest mate. A bestest mate who goes by the name of Keith Simpson. Keith is legally known as Andreij Sulakvelidze but adopted the 'Keith Simpson' appellation to befit his carefully crafted image of exotic myst...

Once more we find ourselves in the Salisbury, the pub that knows nothing of regular hours and rejects licensing regulations. Sat alone at the end of the bar awaiting the arrival of her beau Lemuel Cullen is the statuesque Persephone Skink. Persephone is a hard working lady of 30 years and is strong of mind and body. Dressed in black boots, black flowing skirt, black basque (despite the weather) and black fishnet, fingerless gloves, her ruby lips suck a whisky highball through a straw (black). By day Persephone is a high school teacher but in order to afford the good things in life like food and rent she also moonlights as a receptionist in a well-known Manchester massage parlour. Although she gets on well with Lemmy and considers him one of the better frogs she has kissed, there is no prospect of marriage. She couldn't bear to combine their surnames. Furthermore she always dreamt of marrying a man with a title. Maybe an Earl. Or an OBE at the very least. Or both. Yes, she is ho...

Further notes on the denizens of the Salisbury. The man at the jukebox is Lemuel Cullen, or "Lemmy" to his friends. Of which there are many. And various. Lemmy is pumping two-pound coins into the slot and queueing Rammestein, Five Finger Death Punch and Slayer in the hope that it will discourage that group of mods from putting on their favorite tunes and to ultimately leave the establishment. He can be passive-aggressive like that. He can also be active-aggressive after a few glasses of Jura. Nearing 40 years, 5' 10" in his rock boots Lemmy has long curly black hair and a goatee. As with many men of his age his hair is receding at the front, a disastrous state of affairs camouflaged by a black bandana featuring a repeated skulls motif. Having filled the jukebox Lemmy moves on to chat with the fat bloke on the quiz machine. He laughs loudly as he proffers incorrect answers and gives an affectionate punch to said quizzer which almost dislocates his shoulder. A quick ...

A few notes about people in the Salisbury possibly number one of an indefinite list. Meet Kwacker Gasbags. Kwacker was so named not because he farts a lot, indeed he farts no more and no less than the next person. Unless the next person is Farty O'Gutbucket who is known throughout the land for his noxious emissions. No, Kwacker was so named because Mr and Mrs Gasbags liked ducks. And Japanese motorcycles. And disliked English spelling conventions. Kwacker sits alone nursing his very small beer. He looks on longingly at the young people having fun. Kwacker doesn't have much fun these days. Kwacker has not had much fun in his life. His day job takes him around the mean streets of Manchester where he spends eight hours every day estimating how full the litter bins are in order that the Street Cleansing Directorate may efficiently plan their emptying rota. He enjoys his job and has never been late in his 38 years. Kwacker is a master of nine languages, nobody knows this as Kwac...