Ace Face (Quadrophenia)

Shire Horse (Hounslow)

A man in a shiny suit pulls up in the car park opposite the Shire Horse in Hounslow. He’s riding a Vespa with lots of mirrors.

On his back, he carries a musical instrument. It looks like a guitar with a broken neck. But this is no guitar. It is a lute, that’s a f**king-stupid olde-world instrument with which Ace Sting Face has been practising with fellow members of the Association of British Bell Boys.

Tonight he’s supposed to be taking his new collection out on a dinner hosted by the Manufacturing Industries Sustainability Group (sponsored by Porsche).

The gig is taking place at Twickenham Rugby club, a dump renowned for poisoning guests at dire industry dinners and for attracting even worse entertainment.

Sting-Twat-Ace-Face is having trouble contacting his manager who arranged the gig. Neither mobile nor office number seem to be working. He needs urgently to clarify whether the pay packet is a paltry 150 or a slightly more acceptable £300k.

En route to Twickers from his mansion in Hants, the dobber has an idea; he stops off at the Shire Horse in Hounslow. It looks a bit rough, so before entering, he pops a stick of chewing gum to show how hard he isn’t.


Barman: Awright son, what can I get fer ya?

Ace Sting Face: Erm, well it’s like this….I don’t exactly want a drink. …. D’yer think I could have one of your empty bottles in which to place a note for my manager. His mobile’s down you see. Lives in Wapping; I reckon, if I pop a message in the bottle, send it down the Thames….

Barman: I ‘aven’t any time for this crap mate. This is a pub. Do… you… want… a…f*cking drink or what?

Ace Sting Face: …erm. …..yeah…right…..Fosters-top then …please. We can discuss the empty bottle in a moment.

Barman: Fosters-top. Right * pours drink *

Ace Sting Face (looking round the bar smugly): Can I pay by cheque - your honour?

Barman: We don’t accept cheques son. Fosters-top. That’s £2.80

Ace Sting Face (checking his wallet): Erm…bit of a problem. I don’t think I have the cash….erm…. maybe I could entertain your guests with a couple of new lute numbers by way of payment?

* Sting Face Ace Dick strums some dire crap on his stupid instrument. *

Barman (grabbing lute): Listen son, it’s like this. We know who you are. You might have been slightly cool in the early 80s. But we’d rather boil our gonads in hot oil than listen to any more of this. Now this is a pub…you order a drink… then you pay for it. One last time; £2.80 or we take you round the back for the kicking you so badly deserve.

Ace Sting Face: I guess you’d call it cowardice, but I’m not prepared to go on like this.

Barman (moving round): I hoped you’d say something like that; this’ll be our pleasure.

Ace Sting Face (working hard not to crap himself): I hope my legs don’t break…..

* Ace Sting Face delves manically into his sta-press strides and pulls out just enough change to pay for his pint *

Ace Sting Face: Here you go…£2.80..…sorry about that…..erm, where’s the khasi mate? I’m dying for a do do doo.

Barman: On yer right… childish pr*ck

Ace Sting Face (talking to himself while on the crapper): Gnnnner…….ahhh……now that’s what I call synchronicity!…. Oops…there’s a little black spot on the bowl today. He he he.

* Ace Sting Arse-wipe Face wipes-up and returns to bar to finish his drink. Knowing his message in a bottle idea is a no-go, he turns to a tattooed-customer, a Russian with loads of metalwork in his mouth. Ace Sting Face assumes the fellow is some kind of Amerindian tribal chief *

Ace Sting Face: Wye aye man…..don’t suppose you have any mobile jungle-drums with you? I really need to contact my manager…… I may be able to do something to help with your rain forest problem by way of gratitude…. I have friends in high places, Jaguar for example. Every little thing they do is magic – especially the cash they give me for fronting adverts.

Russian drinker (rising): What is your f*cking problem mate?

Ace Sting Face: What might save us me and you is if the Russian’s love their children too.

Barman (walking round the front menacingly): I think it’s time to sling yer ‘ook son.

Ace Sting Face (moving towards the door): I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien…..

Barman: Yeah, yeah, very poetic mate. Here’s another couple of lines for you to take away.

Every breath you take;
We all wish it was your last – for Christ sake

Ace Sting Face’s rating for the Shire Horse - 100,000,000 castaways / 10

Sputnkiski