So, another pub observation.
Mr Led Zep.
That’s not his name of course. Nobody knows his name, Mr Led Zep they call him. Not to his face of course, there all just too embarrassed to tell him they don’t know his name.
He’s been drinking here for years, they just don’t know his name.
Mr Led Zep they whisper- still wearing that old red t-shirt.
Mr Led Zep they say- still wearing those tiny shorts.
Mr Led Zep they call- he’ll have his coins.
Mr Led Zep they whisper- still wearing that battered blue cap.
Mr Led Xep they say- he’ll have his pint.
Mr Led Zep they point- still hasn’t had a hair cut.
As he selects his songs- the same song every night.
Two pounds in the machine
Led zeppelin- whole lotta love
Iron maiden- run to the hills
sip sip sip
AC/DC- whole lotta Rosie
sip sip sip sip
Guns and roses- night train
sip sip sip sip sip
Cyndi Lauper- true colours.
gulp gulp gulp
Nobody knows why the fifth, nobodies ever asked. They play along of course
Five songs over and he makes his way out the door
“There goes Mr Led Zep”
“Same bloody songs”
“Can’t he get a haircut”
“Can’t he get new clothes”
“Can’t he play something else”
“Why that last song”
Nobody knows him
He’s a laughing stock.
Another good night at the pub he thinks, crashing onto his worn old sofa. It’s been another long day.
Sitting up he catches sight of her picture.
The love of his life. The pain as fresh as the day…
The wedding day.
His choice of DJ, her choice of first dance.
Her choice of song- he’d laughed.
He loved her, she got her way.
She always got her way, she was perfect.
Until the drive to the airport.
The car flipped
The ‘irony’ of the protective barrier crushing the life from her chest.
Every day since he’d done his days work, earning his money, enough to pay his small flat. Change left over for a couple of pints and a few songs on the jukebox. Four of his, one of hers. Of theirs.
Every day he thought of ending it, of joining her.
When he was truly alone that’s exactly what he would do.
In the meantime he still had his friends in the pub.