Chris Pascoe’s Fun Tales

…he’s a Londoner – but Chris isn’t, and claiming to be brings only trouble!

There’s a basic rule of thumb across the British Isles regarding various regions’ views on Londoners. Generally speaking if you’re from Wales, Scotland, Ireland, the Midlands, the South, the North, the West or the East, you don’t like Londoners.

Which is why you should never tell aggressive strangers that you’re from London – especially when you’re not.

I found this out early on in life at Butlins, when I thought it’d be really clever to tell a bunch of fairly hostile northern lads, in a put-on Cockney accent, that I was a Londoner and Londoners were much cooler than them.

The black eye and fat lip I sported for the rest of the holiday didn’t look that cool really, especially on someone from High Wycombe.

So never again did I tell an aggressive stranger I was from London. No, somebody else did that for me.

While researching a book in the beautiful city of York, I was accompanied by a larger than life, mainly inebriated, friend named Pete. On arrival we headed out to sample York’s nightlife… well, actually its very worst pub.

We stepped through the door into a virtually bare room. The only customer, a huge skinhead with an

He curled his lip and bared his teeth… and so did the dog

equally huge dog, spun on his barstool to glare at us.

So did the dog… well, not the barstool bit, but he definitely curled his lip slightly and bared his teeth. Again, so did the dog.

“Let’s try down the road,” I whispered to Pete.

“Why? What’s wrong with this place?” boomed Pete.

The skinhead fixed me with a steely stare before turning his back on me. Yes, whatISwrongwiththisplace? was the unspoken question.

“Nothing,” I stuttered. “It’s just there’s a lot of places to –”

“There’s none like this place, though,” came an interruption from the bar.

Well, he was certainly right on that point.

“Are you from London, pal?” he carried on, strangely, still with his back to us and without moving a muscle.

‘Yes!” replied Pete jovially. “We’re from London… well, he is, anyway.”

“Welcome to York then. Are you on holiday?”

With huge relief I stepped forward, explained we were book researchers and offered to buy him a pint.

His back stiffened. Slowly his eyes rose to meet mine. A single finger protruded from his massive fist and pointed straight at my face.

“DON’T YOU TALK TO ME, PAL!” he uttered. He then suggested I’d better get myself back to London before his mood changed. He had worse moods? It was at this point I noticed a barman, obscured by a pillar, and realised it was he, not the skinhead, who’d been talking to us. I’d approached a huge borderline psychopath unbidden and tried to buy him a drink.

As I left in a hurry, I decided that when I did actually drive back south, a certain “friend” could flipping well walk.

Chris Pascoe is the author of ACatCalledBirmingham and YouCanTaketheCat Out of Slough, and of Your Cat magazine’s column Confessions of a Cat Sitter.