Pub Regular Eyeing Up Favourite Seat Customer Is On Like They’ve Just Kidnapped His Entire Family

WITH his jaundiced eyes boring into the side of the stranger’s head like they’d just kidnapped his entire family, doused them in petrol, and were about to strike a match, pub regular Barry Dalton quickly looked away as the oblivious newcomer turned, unaware of the psychological warfare they have triggered by sitting in his favourite seat.

“I’m not taking anyone’s seat, am I?” Derek Roche asked the barman, Jack D’Arcy, who responded with a carefully rehearsed line, projected loudly enough for the whole bar to hear.

“There’s no names on any of these seats, pal.”

Barman D’Arcy knew full well the chaos this had already unleashed on Kelleher’s Inn’s most profitable regular.

The €15,000-a-year local did his best to disguise the brewing huff, but it was a futile effort. Everyone, except the clueless interloper, knew this was the beginning of Dalton’s personal pub-seat based jihad.

“I didn’t recognise you over there, Barry. You look lost,” called fellow regular, and occasional nemesis, Jimmy Woods, before hocking up a ball of tar-laced phlegm then swallowing it back down with a slug of Murphy’s.

“I need a break from your auld shite talk, Woodsie, you smelly cunt,” Dalton shot back, ego visibly deflating as he slumped into the lower-level lounge seats he usually dismisses as ‘the posh seats for all the nobs.’

Blissfully unaware of the silent civil war erupting around him, newbie Roche stood up – but only to order another pint and rummage through his pockets, causing Dalton’s hopes to briefly soar at the prospect of being reunited with his seat.

“Oh sorry, thought you were leaving there – no, no, honest, no, stay where you are,” he muttered half-heartedly, a Hail Mary of passive aggression that lost the barman D’Arcy €10 in a side bet.

“Fucking told ya he’d say something to him,” Woods cackled, telling D’Arcy to deliver his winning to him in the form of two freshly poured pints instead of the cash; one for himself, and one for ‘grumpy balls over there.’

“You’re not the worst of them, Woodsie,” Roche smiled as the pint arrived, placing his jacket on the back of the sacred throne as the imposter gracefully exited to the beer garden for greener pastures.

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