I don't like the band tonight, but I don't want to go home either so I decide to barfly it. I hate barflies. Those annoying wankers who think their habitual alcoholism gives them some form of right to ensure their quick access to more alcohol is greater than your right to even get served at all. I take a seat and to the left of me is an old woman, "dressed up". Not dressed up like old women usually are...in tweed and floral patterns, but in a sparkly dress. "Going out" dressed up. She fingered a gin and tonic (I assume) while constantly looking around the room. She made me nervous. I'm not sure if she was looking for a "gentleman suitor", looking to make sure her handbag didn't get robbed, or looking around wondering why nobody gets dressed up to go out any more. Old people are obsessed with why people don't get dressed up any more.

To my right is what I would class as the quintessential barfly. If you looked up barfly in the dictionary this fat fuck's face would be staring back at you, morosely. He's the kind of guy who gets dressed up to go out. Leather jacket, clean shirt, flash watch, polished shoes. He is hoping his trinkets will cancel out his huge belly, his short stature and his balding head. He stands there fingering a half-drank pint of ale, looking at nothing in particular. He is hoping that someone will take pity on him and talk to him. That someone will see his jacket and watch and think he is a man of substance, an enigmatic man...and seek to unlock his secret. I say "someone" when I mean "some girl". King Barfly is making many mistakes. First of all the "stay back" enigmatic approach only works if you're over six foot and handsome. The flash watch only works if you're over six foot and handsome.

The barman comes within range and I order a drink. The drink is delivered, opened and paid for. I scan the length of the bar each side, taking in the horrible spectacle I was now an active participant in. Like pigs suckling at their mother's teat we all sat down, scared to be more than 10 yards from alcohol at any given time. Everyone else was ignoring the band too...some were engaged in inter-fly conversation, some (like the old woman to my left) were just making me fucking nervous, and some (like the man to my right) were making me fearful of guilt by association.

A girl comes up to buy a drink and the barfly to my right makes an obvious move further to the right to let the girl in. Like a saloon door come to life, he is adding courtesy to the list of things he hopes will override his obvious physical shortcomings. She is currently occupied by her mobile phone, and I look at her shamelessly. I stare at her from top to toe. My eyes start at her face and I see she is older than she appears from a casual glace. They travel to her chest which is pinned down by her off-the-shoulder dress. Down the length of her long flowing skirt which gives little away. If she felt my eyes burn into her she didn't show it. And why would she? I'm just another fucking pervert looking to feast on her flesh.

I looked over at King Barfly and he was also looking at her, though casually, and thoughtfully. I wonder what he was thinking. That maybe she'd appreciate his standing aside for her so much that she'd suck his dick. Maybe he was wishing this girl was his daughter and victim to his every physical whim. Before long the new-comer was joined by another girl and King barfly was pushed aside even further. Edged out, and ignored. Used. One can only imagine the rage that is building inside of him. "Such a quiet guy, would do anything for anyone" his neighbours will tell the police.

I send a text message to a girl I'm trying to fuck, to see if she is around. She has tattoos and is kind of kooky. After sending, I hold my phone in my hand so I can feel the vibration of a reply as I don't trust myself to feel it in my jeans pocket. Unlike King barfly I don't have a leather jacket, or a clean shirt, or a flash watch. Not that I give a fuck as those things sure don't seem to be working out for him. Unlike the wannabe alpha males that swarm around me I don't have their "game" either. They seem to go for the scatter-gun approach. On the other hand I use the one weapon I do have in my arsenal. Patience. I let the barflies flash their watches, I let the lads use their chat-up lines, whereas I just slowly chip away. A piece at a time. I chip until they're either moulded into what I want them to be, or they're broken and to be thrown away. A few minutes pass and there is no reply so I put the phone back in my pocket and write her off for the night.

The old woman to my left finally departs. I'm not sure if it is just her bed time, or maybe she decided to go somewhere where people dress up to go out, or maybe she spotted a man she would like to get to know better. A man of substance.

A couple stand close but don't sit down. They are late 40s, him a man of weight...girth and height are under his clothes and his smile is wide as it welcomes many acquaintances to his circle. His wife is also a lady of size. A solid lady without being fat. Amazonian. Tall and built she stands nervously watching her husband's crowd, feeling slightly left out. She is wearing a tight green dress that flatters the entirety of her figure, a wide black belt above her generous hips, and a bag clutched nervously in her fingers. The VPL from her granny pants is visible under the tight and clingy dress and she reminds me of schoolboy fantasies. Of thinking about fucking your English teacher. Poster girl for the naughty British housewife. If I was a predatory man I'd take advantage of her husband's distracted attention. I'd move in show her that men existed who would give her their constant attention. I don't, though, as that would be a lie. I leave that kind of game to the alpha males.

A girl is dancing on a floor, the only inhabitant. She's dirty blonde, cute. She motions for me to come and dance with her, but I don't. I'm too old for these games, for this bullshit. I would ruin her.

The band finish playing, I finish drinking and I go home. In the morning I get a response to my text message, saying she wasn't out that night, maybe next weekend. I'll continue to chip away.