I finished my course in university in 1997 and, upon my return to the family home, found my social options somewhat limited. After three years away, most of my previous peer group had either moved on or just politely declined my reunion suggestions. To remedy this I started to frequent the nearest pub on a very regular basis. This pub was conveniently right next door to my house -- so convenient, in fact, that I rarely ventured outside that house/pub twenty yard radius during my five month unemployed stint. Naturally, I got pretty familiar with the clientele.

The regulars were on the whole old. It was an old man's pub so I latched onto two guys who were nearer to my own age than a pensionable one. The first, Grub, was a local ne'er-do-well who was proud of the fact he'd never paid any income tax. He also did a good line in off the back of a lorry merchandise. The second, Stevo, was a more socially adjusted, quiet type. Luckily, they were avid pot smokers as well as borderline alcoholics, so they were able to facilitate my fondness for both the green stuff and pub company. I got my first invite for a smoke at Grub's pretty quickly. Stevo had gotten some bush, and I was to supply the PlayStation and munchies.

The night was fairly mundane -- talk of women, drinking exploits and possible avenues for cheap pot. After a few cans and spliffs Stevo got up and intimated to the door. Grub bolted upright from his slouched Tekken pose and demanded, "Where the hell are you going?"

Stevo mouthed cagily, "Piss."

"I'm timing you mind!" came the considered reply. This scene was repeated during every smoke in the ensuing months. I never paid much attention, but often wondered why I never had to account for my movements in Grub's place.

I discovered the answer to this after a particularly heavy Tuesday -- gyro day, so we were all flush. Come ten o'clock, its fair to say we were shitfaced; the short stroll to Grub's house became difficult, so we took a short cut through his back lane. After several stumbles into puddles and the like we eventually got into our haven. Things were great for fifteen minutes -- Grub fired up the PlayStation and I was looking forward to continuing our FIFA96 league. But I was about to get my semifinal against NAC Breda cut short...

With both Grub and I engaged in PlayStation land Stevo had sloped off to the shitter. On his return, Grub jumped out of the seat and demanded, "Have you had a shit?!" Stevo denied this furiously and countered he'd merely been to get some cans from the fridge.

Grub seemed to accept this until I meekly inquired what the thin dark shape on Stevo's shoe was. We were all now fixated on this sliver of brown; Stevo's eyes rolled back in his head and offered, with unusual bravado, "It's a fucking slug!" I feebly asked if there were lots of slugs in the kitchen, and Stevo venomously came back with, "From the back lane dickhead, millions of 'em out there."

Now Grub was watching this mini debate with a distant, almost serene, look in his bloodshot eyes. He calmly repeated his earlier shit inquiry, and likewise Stevo again stated slug alibi, but he was babbling -- remarking how it was the season for slugs and that the bastards get everywhere if you don't leave saucers of beer in the back garden. Grub was having none of it. He demanded that I check out the bog.

Well it was his house. I was smoking his pot, drinking his beer, and he is a lot bigger than me. I meekly made my way past the defiant Stevo, who was admirably sticking to his story, verifying it with a declaration that "it has to be a slug 'cuz it just moved."

It was carnage in the shitter. The U-shaped mat around the pan was caked. Stevo had valiantly attempted a clean-up operation but in his enthusiasm hadn't reckoned that rubbing with TP just changing the infirm lumps into a kind of paste, which ingrained itself into the fibers of the mat. I then noticed the brown trail leading from the pan almost to my feet. Stevo had been caught horribly short and to make matters worse it became evident that he was a hoverer. In his drunken state he must have completely fallen over at one point because there was another pile of shit at least three feet from the pan in the opposite direction.

It was while I was considering the freakish amount of turd that had missed the toilet that I noticed the silence emanating from the living room, I realized they could both hear my uncontrollable laughter -- and therefore Grub would be aware of the invalidity of the slug tale. On my return and report Stevo was ordered to clean up properly. He then informed me of his fear of toilets and his inability to sit on them, and Grub confirmed that this was not an isolated incident.

I was subsequently sworn to secrecy, because Stevo had somehow managed to conceal his fear from his girlfriend and teenage son. I complied, content with occasional jibes at Stevo, but only at our post-pub smokes.

Some years later I had progressed from student loner, gotten a job, bought a house out of town, and was happily living with my girlfriend. She took over tenancy of the aforementioned pub so my friendship with Grub and Stevo was renewed. Very late one night both rolled through the door. Stevo's girlfriend had dumped him for reasons I could not extract out of the drunken pair, so I took pity on them and decided a lock-in would cheer up the depressed Stevo. It was a Saturday and the pub was fairly full; most of those present decided that this unexpected extension of pub hours was an excellent idea, so they stayed.

Of course, Stevo and Grub knew everyone, so they were accepting pints from their brethren as a reward for the lock-in. Maybe an hour passed when a mighty knock on the door was heard over the pub conversation. "Police?" was directed at my betrothed, as if being a landlady gave her x-ray vision. She duly answered the door, and to everyone's surprise it was Stevo's recently-estranged girlfriend, complete with teenage son ready to give him one last chance... but Stevo was nowhere to be found!

I got her a rum and coke and the boy a panda pop, and they patiently waited for around twenty minutes, making small talk with the locals. On Stevo's return he staggered unconvincingly toward the bar, his eyes fixed only on his pint. The lad shouted "Dad!" Stevo swung around and looked, confused, at his family. The lad clambered down from the bar stool and made a beeline for his father, hugging him to a collective "ahhh" from the attentive locals. Of course you know what was on his hand -- and so did everyone else when Stevo brought it up for nasal verification. With the crowd agog, Grub caught my gaze, nodded toward Stevo, and shouted, "It's a fucking slug!"

At the time of writing, Stevo is still single.

-- Manker