The Gin and Tonic Brigade

Go into a non-scuzzy pub almost anywhere in Britain this lunchtime and you will find them. Their name should be Legion, for they are many, but they are, in fact, The Gin and Tonic Brigade.
How do you spot them? Well, it's almost impossible NOT to spot them! They are those corpulent, greasy, shabby-suited, middle-aged twats, with their guts hanging over their rolled over waistbands, who hog the bar, usually stuck on top of bar stools like giant, sweaty, glycogenic toffee apples.
They are usually "directors" or "MDs" of small businesses, they insist on talking very loudly and laughing uproariously/belching/farting every few minutes while all the time holding onto their symbols of office - goldfish bowls on stems filled with G and a bit of T.
These wankers were at the height of their powers during the Thatcher years but, like the Bitch Queen herself, have just refused to crawl back into their caves, let alone die!
Almost every sentence they belch out begins "And I'll tell you another thing....." The principal topic of conversation is always the state of "the bloody country" and how "sodding pinko, Commie, lesbian/poofda, namby-pamby, do-gooders" are ruining things. They long for the return of "Maggie", quote the fucking Daily bastard fucking Mail intermittently (those of them who can read) and preface at least one sentence with "I'm no bloody racist but ....." or "They come over here and....."
"All that crap spouted about Pinochet," they bellow. "So a few people disappeared! Our labrador Adolph went missing for two days once! You fucking tellin' me I should be executed for that?"
They also bemoan the idleness in the country, all this during a boozing session which begins at about 12 noon and, with the odd break to "nip up the fucking golf club", goes on until nearly closing time. Irony is, to say the least, lost on them. Who the fuck, then, is running their businesses and sweating their guts out to keep these lardarses in gaudy gold watches and neckchains of only a slightly lower gauge than the one which held the anchor on the Titanic while they are doing fuck all apart from gaining even more weight?
You never, EVER see the wives of these reptiles. I imagine them all to be equally gin-soaked, all with heads which have outworn four bodies and bedecked in designer gear and appallingly loud jewellery, who lounge around their "barn conversions" all day leching at the young gardener and using alcohol to blot out of the sad, meaninglessness which is their existence.
No, members of the Gin and Tonic Brigade ALWAYS turn their attentions to the young
barmaid at some stage and start making lewd remarks to her in the hope that she will find them irresistible - in the same way the programme makers seriously thought we could ever believe that Reg Varney and Bob Grant were the fanny magnets they were made out to be in On The Buses!
When the barmaid has broken down in tears or just fled in disgust there is usually a brief lull until "The Harpies" arrive. The Harpies are a gaggle of about three or four late middle-aged, former glamour gals who are now so haggard they always turn up late because the first coat of their makeup never takes! They are gold diggers who can no longer prey on rich, young men so are desperate to drop their voluminous drawers for these bloated drunkards in the hope of getting some jewellery or a free holiday. The price they pay, apart from having to endure the sight of the brigade members' ginger-pubed, teapot dicks at the end of the night, is to have their backsides pinched and their breasts cupped in the pub!
Well, I am off to the pub now! No, I'm most definitely NOT one of the brigade. I just like to taunt them with lines like "Oi, mate, is that your Jag that kid is scratching with a stick?" or "'Scuse me. Have you heard anything about the golf club fire this afternoon?"
Sod 'em. The Gin and Tonic Brigade can go to Grantham.