Quarry Quarter

I’ll admit this isn’t the worst of the Mathew Street dungholes, but Christ on a bike it comes close. Why are these places always so unrelentingly awful? Will the council refuse planning permission if they’re the tiniest bit agreeable or something?
Although the shortness of the corner bar meant only three people could stand at it at any one time, the barman would probably have served anybody who wasn’t me till the cows come home. Then he would’ve served the cows. I don’t know if, in a past life, I murdered his family or what-​have-​you, but watching literally everybody else being served before me was infuriating. Praise Allah for that bloke who pointed at me and said «Are you ever gonna serve this feller?»
The Quarry Quarter itself is a smallish bar with a tiny stage, on which stout middle-​aged men with guitars will butcher Beatles hits and wait for fame to come a-​knocking. I’m going to do what Doctor Foster did for Gloucester and never go there again.