Rose and Crown (Southwark)

Johnny Castle (Dirty Dancing)

The vertical manifestation of horizontal intent.

That was what that clever college-boy called it. Course, behind the fancy words, he was right. I danced real good, but only as a way of picking up broads - and then bedding them.

How many gals did I have in that Butlins summer season? 20? Maybe 25. I don't remember and besides I don't count so good.

Baby was no different to the rest of them; maybe a little younger, maybe a little greener. I had to say some fancy things to get her in the sack, telling her dancing is 'a heart beat' and other such crap. I also had to work some fancy moves while playing wet t-shirts with her. But I never thought the silly cow would take it to heart.

I mean for pete's sake, I'm a bloke. This is the real world, not my-little-pony-fantasy-land.

A pleasant accident she said. Yeah right, accident my ass. And an accident that I only became a party to after I got out of the slammer.

(Oh yeah, thanks very much Mr Baby senior; I'm on the register for having bedded a minor; and I've had my fill of 'dirty dancing' while inside the nick, if you get my drift. Disgusting!)

Out of the Scrubs I'm straight into the council flat she's sorted in Tooting. There, the story ends. I've got a toddler and a missus with an over-sized, slightly-stained white t-shirt and a pair of leggings. You know the deal right guys? One big-old accident.

That's why I'm in here in the Rose and Crown, having 'the time of my life', boozing on my tod. I suspect there are plenty of other sob stories too, judging by the number of saloon bar tans and strawberries in the middle of faces.

Oh yeah, by the way, her real name is Mildred, not Baby - Mildred. I'm shacked up with a bird called Mildred, like George's missus.

Johnny Castle's rating for The Rose and Crown 7 / 10

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