It was a Friday morning. The pubs had been open for four minutes when I
 decided that the best course of action would be to test a pint of
 Guinness.

 I walked in the door of the pub trying desperately to look cool in the
 effortless manner of Steve McQueen. Unfortunately, my rather large frame
 wasn’t made for effortless cool. I side-swiped a chair and stumbled
 slightly. My dark glasses slipped from the bridge of my nose revealing, in
 the words of Ray Davies, my bloodshot alcoholic eyes. The barmaid rushed
 over to help me. She took me by the arm and led me to the bar. It was
 about  that time that I realised that she thought I was blind. That’s what I get
 for wearing dark glasses inside. My father always used to say that only two
 kinds of people wore shades inside – blind people and prats. He wasn’t Roy
 Orbison’s biggest fan. Come to think of it, he didn’t much care for Ray
 Charles or Little Stevie Wonder either. At least the barmaid didn’t think
 I was a prat – yet. I let her carry on her mistaken dreams of me being blind
 and being able to see past her good looks and heavenly figure to understand
 the real woman within. It doesn’t do you any good in this world to go around
 telling people that you’re not blind – you’re just fat and clumsy.

      I eventually asked for a pint of Guinness and got one. I tipped the
 barmaid heavily. A hardened drinker should always respect the bar staff in
 his favourite haunts. Bar staff are superior in every way to mere mortals.
 They are the moral superiors on account of their sobriety. They have the
 power to cut off your supply and should be engaged in friendly chat at any
 opportunity. I can now count many bar staff amongst my closest friends and
 each relationship has proved very beneficial to me. Whether it’s the odd
 free pint or the “extended” opening hours they have all been gained simply
 by being polite and civil to these golden workers.

     As in all the best pubs, there was a pile of newspapers at the end of the
 bar. Yesterday’s. I’d had my fill of yesterday’s news. I leafed through
 the pile and eventually pulled out a couple of those free listings magazines
 you always get. I picked up my Guinness with one hand and wandered over to a
 table with my magazines – realising all too late that I’d probably now
 blown my cover of being blind.

     I was happily reading away – criticising to myself what I was critical of
 and praising what I thought of as good. My opinion is the most important
 of anyone’s I know – so I like to make it known to myself.

     My reverie and reverence was interrupted after a while by a man’s voice
 which said

 “Whatcha reading?”

     It was my mate John. John can be relied upon for affecting an American
 accent at the most inopportune moments and for always buying his round.
 These are both good qualities in life.

     I explained to him that I was reading these free papers and magazines. He
 asked me if they were any good. I said that I thought they were alright.

     John said something along the lines of

 “You used to write a bit didn’t you? Why don’t you get involved with one
 of these magazines? Here, this one says it’s looking for people to contribute
 in any way they feel like.”

     I thought about it for a minute and said

 “Yeah, I used to write for that student magazine. I got fan-mail once.
 They went bust or disappeared eventually. The problem is, John, that I don’t do
 the things these magazines are about.”

 “How so?” said John. Another one of John’s great qualities is that he’s a
 great vehicle for helping dialogue flow.

 “Well.” I said with a sigh

 “Just because I live in the fashionable, bohemian West-end, nearly on the
 cosmopolitan Byres road doesn’t mean I’m fashionable and bohemian. I’m
 drunk most of the time. I haven’t ever spent more than £4 on a T-shirt. I only
 wear Black – but not in a goth way. I’m fat. I don’t like trendy pubs. I
 like quiet pubs. I don’t like modern music – I listen to country music
 three days a week for God’s sake. I don’t mean Johnny Cash either! The closest I
 come to being trendy is that I like Bob Dylan – everybody says they like
 Bob Dylan – but I have all his albums and know all the words. I have bought
 books of essays on him. I’m a Dylan geek. I don’t own any records made by
 new artists. I don’t want to. I only drink Guinness – never cocktails. I
 wear proper shoes all the time (or at least cowboy boots). I only wear
 trainers for 5 a sides. I don’t play 5 a sides often. I haven’t been in
 town for months. I live in a little bubble that maybe extends from Thornwood to
 St Georges Cross. I don’t like to be in dark places. Unless it’s outside.
 I just don’t know what I could do for a magazine that they’d be interested
 in.”

 John, who knew never to interrupt a rant, looked thoughtful before saying

 “Why not just write something and send it to them anyway? See what they
 say.”

 “Don’t go on about it. I’m trying to have a quiet pint here. Speaking of
 which…”

 I tapped my glass which was now empty.

 “You’ll have to go up to the bar – the bar-maid might be annoyed with me.
 I’ll have a Guinness.”

 Off John trotted with an exasperated glint in his eye.

 After several more pints and a long conversation about Middlesbrough’s
 comeback and chances of progressing further in the UEFA cup, I left the
 pub – staggering and swaying like a Blind man without a stick – and came home
 and wrote something to send to one of those magazines.