Last Orders - (1/?)
Title: The Forrester Arms
Author: miss_ariake
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: PG/13 for now
Summary: A man walks into a pub... the rest is history.
Warnings: None yet
Disclaimers: Well... I have not the ownership of Muse and all the lovely people associated with it, so I claim that this be not true for them at least. Although, some of the people and all of the locations I'll mention are real, all from my own personal experiences.
The sea is an awe-inspiring phenomenon that we take for granted. Its power, its beauty and effortless grace; a god with endless abilities to shape and destroy this world. Nothing stands in its path, nature and man all bow down to the sea. An entity of incredible excellence and intimidation. Awe-inspiring… and bloody distracting. It’s very difficult to keep my concentration on my novel and its fantasy world, when the features of reality are so fascinating. Normally, I couldn’t give two monkeys about the sea but right now, it has me completely hypnotised. It’s 9pm and the moon is casting a glorious glow on the crystal jet-black sea, illuminating each crashing wave against the rocks. I figured sitting out on the wooden groins (don’t laugh) to read my book would be a tranquil and serene moment, but I’ve barely made it through one page.
Perhaps I need another kind of distraction. I look over and down the beach, leading a path towards the nearest town. Minehead, lit up with an enticing glow of fire-fly lights. Of course, next door, the eyesore of the Butlins is also lit up, but the appeal of back-water white-trash has no affect on me. No, I’m rather fancying the thought of one of the local pubs being open. Maybe a drink can be the knock on the head that I need to help me sleep. Either that or the hour walk along the beach will do the job.
After dropping off my book and grabbing my wallet from my chalet, I began my trek to the glorious centre of evening excitement. Yeah, I know that I’m kidding myself with such a statement. Minehead is hardly London at the weekend, but as I finally get closer, it does have a certain comforting aura to it. The walk along the beach hadn’t been the most thrilling, other than tripping over a rock halfway along. Thank god for the blanket of darkness that covered up my embarrassment. My middle name isn’t grace, but I wouldn’t mind a little bit of it being shared my way.
On closer inspection, Minehead does have a familiar air of my hometown of Teignmouth. Having just walked past the arcade with its claw-mechanism machines (which I never win on) and the fish-and-chips takeaway, I can’t help but feel nostalgic. Feel a bit sleepy too, where are the local pubs? You can’t have a popular sea-side town without one, but here they feel like a scarce commodity. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea, I should have just stuck with my book. Twenty minutes of fruitless and alcohol-less searching, I finally stumbled across a pub that, thankfully, hadn’t shut its doors for the night. The Forrester Arms, with two balding men outside having a smoke and an indepth discussion about… Coronation Street. I guess at least, could have been Eastenders, it’s hard to tell. They all sound the same these days.
Upon entering the pub, it was obvious within the first few seconds that ‘I’ was not a local and ‘I’ was a stranger amongst a tight group of friends. Inbred-looking friends, if I’m going to be honest, but I’d rather not get kicked out straight away for voicing my opinions. Instead, I made my way to the mahogany bar and caught the attention of the young man serving.
“Excuse me… Holy Christ.”
He is fucking gorgeous.
“Hmm, oh sorry, we don’t serve that but can I recommend one of the local ales?”
I feel like I’ve just stepped into a movie and it’s one of those cliché moments when time freezes. Of course, this is not Hollywood nor a big blockbuster film set. This is Minehead and now I’ve been staring for too long in complete silence. Don’t panic, Matt, you’ve got this.
“Ah, yes, haha! Umm, well… I guess, I wouldn’t mind trying this… Owlzatti, please.”
“It’s Owlzatt, with an exclamation mark, but don’t worry, mate! Everyone makes that mistake!”
Nice one. Well done, now you have truly won first place in the annual moron tournament. The barman smiled at me, most likely out of pity, and prepared a pint of Owlzatt. What kind of a name is ‘Owlzatt!’ anyway? It’s just a ploy for embarrassing and singling out the tourists like me. Never mind, I’ll drown my sorrows in the corner room, away from the sniggering inbreds.
“That’ll be £3.50, mate.”
“Thanks, cheers.”
I took my pint and left the bar, not before checking out the barman again and admiring his eyes. They were tired, no doubt from working the graveyard shift, but they had a friendly and welcoming glint to them. If I stare for too long though, they might just lose that glow and be pissed off with me. I’ll just stick to my corner and my ale.
“Wanker!”
“What the hell?”
I knew it, I’d been staring for too long. But… that voice didn’t even sound like the barman. It sounded a little high and… squawky.
“Whoo, wanker!”
After surveying the room a bit more, I noticed a large cage with a lone grey parrot perched inside. Apparently his name was Nelson and had a tendency to bite people who got too close. No mention of a sharp tongue mind you, I wonder if its colourful vocabulary stretches beyond insulting the pub’s patrons.
“Hello, Nelson.”
“…”
“Nelson?”
“Wanker!”
Clearly not.
“Oh shut up, Nelson. Not everyone is a wanker.”
“Wanker!”
The blonde barman from earlier walked around the corner and began shaking his head at the feathery Tourettes sufferer, and then turned to look at me. Concentrate, Matt and remember how to use the English language.
“Sorry about that, mate, he’s got a wicked mouth on him. He picks it up from the locals… speaking of which, can’t say I’ve seen you around these parts before.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda on holiday right now.”
“Holiday? In Minehead? Oh no, don’t tell me you’re a Butlins dredge?”
“Oh hell no, no… I’m staying in one of the chalets on Dunster beach, you know where I mean?”
“Sure do, but you look a little young to be owning one of those… no offence.”
“None taken, I’m borrowing it from my Godparents. I need a quiet location to focus on my work.”
At this point, the barman had taken a seat at my table and was leaning back in his chair. I swallowed deeply as he ran his hand through his hair; little blonde tufts tinted with brown poking through his fingers. Damn it, Matt, stop staring and drink your Owlzatt.
“Oh, you like the ale?”
“Hmm, it’s alright. Got a different aftertaste but it goes down well. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“Not a worry, how about another one?”
“You have a different variety I can try?”
He winked at me and skipped up from his seat, taking his place behind the bar again. Another customer began to place an order which held him up, but it gave me a chance to clear the rouge that I know is on my cheeks. I’ll just blame the alcohol, that always works. It’s a relatively nice bar, very homely with character on every wall. Pictures of the old cricket and darts teams, as well as 50’s style posters and wooden skirting decorated the room, including an impressive looking jukebox beside Nelson’s cage.
“Wanker!”
“He is not a wanker, Nelson. Stop being a pain in the arse, or I won’t give you a biscuit. You hear me?”
“…”
“Much better. Now then, here you are… umm, excuse me but what’s your name? Assuming you don’t actually go by ‘wanker’ and Nelson can be forgiven.”
“Ha, no, my name is Matthew… can I ask yours?”
“Certainly, it’s Dom. And here is a Barn Owl, another local ale.”
“Cheers, how much do I owe you?”
“Hmm, how about you let me chat with you for another 10 minutes?”
Here comes that rouge again….
“I’ll give you half an hour.”
And I’ll cross my fingers and hope for even longer.
(Nelson the parrot is real. He really knows nothing more than 'Wanker'.)
Author: miss_ariake
Pairing: Belldom
Rating: PG/13 for now
Summary: A man walks into a pub... the rest is history.
Warnings: None yet
Disclaimers: Well... I have not the ownership of Muse and all the lovely people associated with it, so I claim that this be not true for them at least. Although, some of the people and all of the locations I'll mention are real, all from my own personal experiences.
The sea is an awe-inspiring phenomenon that we take for granted. Its power, its beauty and effortless grace; a god with endless abilities to shape and destroy this world. Nothing stands in its path, nature and man all bow down to the sea. An entity of incredible excellence and intimidation. Awe-inspiring… and bloody distracting. It’s very difficult to keep my concentration on my novel and its fantasy world, when the features of reality are so fascinating. Normally, I couldn’t give two monkeys about the sea but right now, it has me completely hypnotised. It’s 9pm and the moon is casting a glorious glow on the crystal jet-black sea, illuminating each crashing wave against the rocks. I figured sitting out on the wooden groins (don’t laugh) to read my book would be a tranquil and serene moment, but I’ve barely made it through one page.
Perhaps I need another kind of distraction. I look over and down the beach, leading a path towards the nearest town. Minehead, lit up with an enticing glow of fire-fly lights. Of course, next door, the eyesore of the Butlins is also lit up, but the appeal of back-water white-trash has no affect on me. No, I’m rather fancying the thought of one of the local pubs being open. Maybe a drink can be the knock on the head that I need to help me sleep. Either that or the hour walk along the beach will do the job.
After dropping off my book and grabbing my wallet from my chalet, I began my trek to the glorious centre of evening excitement. Yeah, I know that I’m kidding myself with such a statement. Minehead is hardly London at the weekend, but as I finally get closer, it does have a certain comforting aura to it. The walk along the beach hadn’t been the most thrilling, other than tripping over a rock halfway along. Thank god for the blanket of darkness that covered up my embarrassment. My middle name isn’t grace, but I wouldn’t mind a little bit of it being shared my way.
On closer inspection, Minehead does have a familiar air of my hometown of Teignmouth. Having just walked past the arcade with its claw-mechanism machines (which I never win on) and the fish-and-chips takeaway, I can’t help but feel nostalgic. Feel a bit sleepy too, where are the local pubs? You can’t have a popular sea-side town without one, but here they feel like a scarce commodity. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea, I should have just stuck with my book. Twenty minutes of fruitless and alcohol-less searching, I finally stumbled across a pub that, thankfully, hadn’t shut its doors for the night. The Forrester Arms, with two balding men outside having a smoke and an indepth discussion about… Coronation Street. I guess at least, could have been Eastenders, it’s hard to tell. They all sound the same these days.
Upon entering the pub, it was obvious within the first few seconds that ‘I’ was not a local and ‘I’ was a stranger amongst a tight group of friends. Inbred-looking friends, if I’m going to be honest, but I’d rather not get kicked out straight away for voicing my opinions. Instead, I made my way to the mahogany bar and caught the attention of the young man serving.
“Excuse me… Holy Christ.”
He is fucking gorgeous.
“Hmm, oh sorry, we don’t serve that but can I recommend one of the local ales?”
I feel like I’ve just stepped into a movie and it’s one of those cliché moments when time freezes. Of course, this is not Hollywood nor a big blockbuster film set. This is Minehead and now I’ve been staring for too long in complete silence. Don’t panic, Matt, you’ve got this.
“Ah, yes, haha! Umm, well… I guess, I wouldn’t mind trying this… Owlzatti, please.”
“It’s Owlzatt, with an exclamation mark, but don’t worry, mate! Everyone makes that mistake!”
Nice one. Well done, now you have truly won first place in the annual moron tournament. The barman smiled at me, most likely out of pity, and prepared a pint of Owlzatt. What kind of a name is ‘Owlzatt!’ anyway? It’s just a ploy for embarrassing and singling out the tourists like me. Never mind, I’ll drown my sorrows in the corner room, away from the sniggering inbreds.
“That’ll be £3.50, mate.”
“Thanks, cheers.”
I took my pint and left the bar, not before checking out the barman again and admiring his eyes. They were tired, no doubt from working the graveyard shift, but they had a friendly and welcoming glint to them. If I stare for too long though, they might just lose that glow and be pissed off with me. I’ll just stick to my corner and my ale.
“Wanker!”
“What the hell?”
I knew it, I’d been staring for too long. But… that voice didn’t even sound like the barman. It sounded a little high and… squawky.
“Whoo, wanker!”
After surveying the room a bit more, I noticed a large cage with a lone grey parrot perched inside. Apparently his name was Nelson and had a tendency to bite people who got too close. No mention of a sharp tongue mind you, I wonder if its colourful vocabulary stretches beyond insulting the pub’s patrons.
“Hello, Nelson.”
“…”
“Nelson?”
“Wanker!”
Clearly not.
“Oh shut up, Nelson. Not everyone is a wanker.”
“Wanker!”
The blonde barman from earlier walked around the corner and began shaking his head at the feathery Tourettes sufferer, and then turned to look at me. Concentrate, Matt and remember how to use the English language.
“Sorry about that, mate, he’s got a wicked mouth on him. He picks it up from the locals… speaking of which, can’t say I’ve seen you around these parts before.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda on holiday right now.”
“Holiday? In Minehead? Oh no, don’t tell me you’re a Butlins dredge?”
“Oh hell no, no… I’m staying in one of the chalets on Dunster beach, you know where I mean?”
“Sure do, but you look a little young to be owning one of those… no offence.”
“None taken, I’m borrowing it from my Godparents. I need a quiet location to focus on my work.”
At this point, the barman had taken a seat at my table and was leaning back in his chair. I swallowed deeply as he ran his hand through his hair; little blonde tufts tinted with brown poking through his fingers. Damn it, Matt, stop staring and drink your Owlzatt.
“Oh, you like the ale?”
“Hmm, it’s alright. Got a different aftertaste but it goes down well. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“Not a worry, how about another one?”
“You have a different variety I can try?”
He winked at me and skipped up from his seat, taking his place behind the bar again. Another customer began to place an order which held him up, but it gave me a chance to clear the rouge that I know is on my cheeks. I’ll just blame the alcohol, that always works. It’s a relatively nice bar, very homely with character on every wall. Pictures of the old cricket and darts teams, as well as 50’s style posters and wooden skirting decorated the room, including an impressive looking jukebox beside Nelson’s cage.
“Wanker!”
“He is not a wanker, Nelson. Stop being a pain in the arse, or I won’t give you a biscuit. You hear me?”
“…”
“Much better. Now then, here you are… umm, excuse me but what’s your name? Assuming you don’t actually go by ‘wanker’ and Nelson can be forgiven.”
“Ha, no, my name is Matthew… can I ask yours?”
“Certainly, it’s Dom. And here is a Barn Owl, another local ale.”
“Cheers, how much do I owe you?”
“Hmm, how about you let me chat with you for another 10 minutes?”
Here comes that rouge again….
“I’ll give you half an hour.”
And I’ll cross my fingers and hope for even longer.
(Nelson the parrot is real. He really knows nothing more than 'Wanker'.)