Brewmaster (Leicester Square)

Chuck Noland (Castaway)

Look, I'm not an unreasonable guy. I understand why managers refuse to serve punters, say if they're too drunk or if they belong to CAMRA. But my mate Wilson is good as gold.

He's quiet, kind and wouldn't say boo to a goose. And he's my dearest friend.

Here's what happened. We've gone to the Brewmaster next to Leicester Square tube and are propping up the bar on a couple of stools. Everything seems to be going OK. I've got a Carling and Wilson has a half of Fosters (rank stuff, but he seems to like it). Plus, I'm nibbling on a packet of prawn cocktail; I've grown a bit partial to seafood since our time together on the island.

We're having a chat about crabs and Jesus and whales, when I start to notice the manager.

He's brilliant, no doubt about that. Never seen a cat work a bar like this guy. Wilson clocked it too. Eyes and ears everywhere. We've just about finished our first drink and the manager comes up to us ready to take our order for number two. Or so I thought.

I suppose my pal had made a bit of a mess around the bar on account of not having a mouth, but cut the guy some slack for God's sake. He's a leather football (I think) with feathers and a painted face!

"Listen mate," says the manager. "I can't serve you or the ball any more; I'm really sorry; you've obviously got issues, but it ain't fair on my staff, expecting them to clear up the mess 'n' that. Besides, it's just … odd … watching you trying to pour lager into a painted mouth."

Fair play, the bloke was polite enough. But he made his point right in front of Wilson, which clearly hurt my dear friend's feelings. And the bar was chocka with human detritus enjoying the show.

I didn't make a scene; what's the point. But I was disappointed. After all, I like the Brewmaster; it's a good pub in a crappy location. Wouldn't expect to find a decent bar near grand central station in New York, would ya?

But Wilson? Well, that was a different story. He'd gone red in the face and I knew he meant trouble. Launched himself at the manager like a ball possessed.

He must have mis-timed his attack though, because instead of hitting him, he rolled gently off the end of the bar, bounced twice and ended up in a puddle on the floor. A puddle of his own making, I might add, due to the imbibing issues I mentioned earlier.

'That's it,' says the manager. 'I asked you nicely. Now get out. And take your football with you.'

With that, he picks up my mate and – literally – kicks him so hard in the head, that he goes flying out the door.

Luckily Wilson isn't hurt and plan B is to move on down to OnAnon or maybe Tiger Tiger. I'll shove Wilson up my jumper so the dudes on the door think I'm just some bloater accountant, so we should get in no probs.

I suppose we haven't been barred from the Brewmaster and Wilson wasn't really hurt. And he did start the ruck.

Maybe I'll try again next week. It's a busy, busy, busy place which suits me just fine. If you'd spent four years holed up on a desert island, just you and a spherical friend, you'd want to drink somewhere with a few people too.

Next week. First we'll disguise my friend. Stick a hat on him or something. Then, we'll find a corner of the pub to sup in, well out of the way. Or maybe I'll just spend the evening kicking Wilson's head in.

Back of the net.

Chuck Noland's rating for the Brewmaster Leicester Square 7 / 10

Sputnikski

Nah, this ain't right. Read my account of what happened - Wilson

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