My lager sat on the windowsill.  Behind it traffic buzzed, pedestrians ambled and the ubiquitous riff-raff loitered outside MacDonald’s.  It was remarkably engaging.  Life is fascinating when viewed through a pint glass.  The bubbles danced in time to Radiohead, or perhaps Radiohead were playing in time to the bubbles, but what caught my attention was the chap at the bar.

Coat folded neatly on the bar, hat balanced expertly on top, his usual drinking routine I suspect.  Faded t-shirt stretched over his belly.  Horizontal stripes never flatter.  An unusually prominent bottom lip made him look like a man who is perpetually displeased.  A nose like a parrot’s beak,  jet black hair that – given his age – had to be dyed.  He had all the deportment of a gloomy cockatoo. On his left wrist was the tiniest watch I have ever seen. Anorexic black strap and a minuscule face.  Seriously, it was so tiny that I can only suppose he had stolen it from a doll.

He checked his watch repeatedly, his manner was that of a wanted man.  He lifted the beer slowly, peered in the top and then slowly rotated the glass as he scrutinised it from the side. Humph, his expression said, the beer clearly disappointed and he glared at it morosely.  He put down the glass with a melodramatic sigh, shot a few conspiratorial glances around the pub, grabbed his coat and hat and left in a hurry.  But what was behind the suspicious behaviour?

I suspect the infamous Doll Mafia are after him.

I left my things on the table, went up to the bar, then returned with my pint and sat down. A chap nearby turned to me. “I wouldn’t leave your phone lying about round ‘ere,” he said. “Don’t worry, ” I replied, “I was keeping an eye on it from the bar. And besides, I thought you looked pretty trustworthy.”

This was a lie. Probably in his late 60s, by his appearance it was clear he was a perpetual adolescent. Tracksuit bottoms, rugby top stretched over his belly, a JD sports bag – the sign of the Chav. Shoulder-length grey hair held back with a pair of shades. In front of him sat a pack of B&H and a pint of Carling.

He winked, pulled out a cigarette, and used it to point across the room at a rowdy bunch of low-lives. “It’s not me you should be worrying about, it’s that bunch over there.” He started for the door, then turned back. He wasn’t finished. “I own the barber shop next door, know everyone in this town. I HATE this town. People always bothering me. ‘Can I have a fag?’, ‘Could you lend me a quid?’, and worst of all are the charity collectors. Every damn Thursday they plague the streets.”

I agreed with him. The town where I work is without a doubt the most miserable place in England. Surrounded by estates, filled to the brim with drunks, chavs and charity collectors. I glanced out of the window. One of the local fruitcakes walked by. An old man wearing red trousers, a long fur coat and a black fedora with a yellow ribbon. A Gandalf-like staff completed the look. I have seen him before, always wearing a hat of some form. Sometimes a bandanna, sometimes a fedora, once in forester’s hat with a large red feather. The barber rolled his eyes. “Don’t get me started,” he said.

Turns out the barber (like me) supported Spurs. Best start to the season since ’61. We had plenty to talk about. Football unites like nothing else. We couldn’t remember all of last week’s goal-scorers. “Oi Phil!” yelled the barber, “who scored Spurs’ goals last week?” Phil only drinks Newcastle Brown Ale, a cheap and pikey drink if there ever was one. Phil only wears one shirt, blue-checked. A man of routine. This town may be a dive but it certainly has character. He grabbed a copy of The Mirror and gave it to the barber. “It’s all in there,” he said.

The barber was looking out the window. He whistled softly. Two girls walked past. Short skirts, tanned legs, high heels. Three Harleys whizzed by. Three Harleys, three horns sounded. If there had been three girls the scene would have been perfect. I took my leave, already late back to the office.

On my way back a drunk approached me. “Do ya have a spare fag?”"

I entered the hairdressers in a state of fear and trepidation. I hadn’t been in years. Literally. The last 5 years have spent in a sinusoidal wave. Wife shaves my head with clippers. Hair grows for a few months until it becomes a health hazard. Wife despairs and shaves my head again. Hair grows to an obscene length where it could potentially trip people up as I walk down the street. Wife shaves my head again, and so on.

Why break the cycle? Well for starters my wife hates shaving my head. I tend to mess about – like all men do when their partners cut their hair. “Stop that,” she’ll say, “leave me alone.” I also have the job of cleaning up the hair which riles me beyond belief. I’d rather head down the post office on pensions day and wait for hours sweltering in a queue of elderly folk.

The two hairdressers were overweight middle-aged men who thought they were hip and trendy. Basically when it comes down to fashion there are a number of categories.

1) The fashionable.
2) Those who don’t give a monkey’s. Myself for example.
3) White middle-aged men who think they are it.

The bloke that cut my hair was clad in a tight red t-shirt stretched over his belly, surf shorts and flip-flops. His hair was short on top, but he had a pleated mullet. I thought those were illegal. Dumbass will be furious that I didn’t take a photo and Mr Condescending will probably shed a few tears but I didn’t get an opportunity. He was a frivolous babbler. Not that I could hear much of what he said, they had some RnB channel playing on an unimaginably large plasma. It nearly made my ears bleed. I did pick up some stories though.

Apparently a guy came in last week, claimed to drive a Porsche Turbo. 269mph, he said. Right, they said. Cliff Richard borrows it from time to time, he said. Right, they said. The engine starts when you do this, he said, splaying out fingers in Star Trek style.

Another guy came in with a mangy old sheepdog. The hairdresser crouched down and petted its head. “Don’t go near her,” said the owner, “she’s a trained killer.” “Oh,” he replied, and asked about the guy’s occupation. “If I told you that I’d have to kill you,” he responded with total seriousness.

I love the fact that even though these guys were clearly nutters – they was deadly serious – they still had the awareness to go for haircuts. I think I’ll go back there, just for the stories.