The Man At The End Of The Bar (love hurts)
He’s of indeterminate age. He resides in every pub and bar in the land. An everyman with a pint glass. He doesn’t appear to have any friends… unless they’ve all used the excuse of going to the toilet. He’s a self-regarding oasis in an ocean of anomie. This man is an island… He’s most definitely not a peninsula. If he were the butterfly wings of chaos theory then heaven help what’s happening on the other side of the world. If there really is six degrees of separation to Kevin Bacon – then he’s number seven. If all famous rock bands have an unlucky early member who leaves prior to them making it big – then it wasn’t him. If he had a makeover no-one would notice – because no-one would remember what he originally looked like. His sole purpose in life is to make comment on conversations he isn’t involved in; to people he doesn’t know; while delivering his wisdom to an audience of none. He offers his opinions regardless. Without thought. Or fear. Or favour. Or reason. His only obvious social skill is setting a tumbleweed of indifference adrift among a desert of silent disbelieving looks. Who said that?!