Conversation overheard in a pub

Not the kind of pub that exists in real life. More the kind that might exist in my head. And should anybody be wondering whether such a pub does actually exist, i.e. in my head, well, I'm not going to tell you. Not for fear that you might think me mad, just that it's nice and quiet. The kind of place where I can just wander in, put my favourite tracks on the jukebox, and sit back with a pint and a good book. No distracting fruit machines, no arcade games, and a strict No Mobile Phones policy. Unfortunately, there is a dartboard, but happily no-one uses it right now. And I'd rather that didn't change. I don't much fancy having darts whizzing around the inside of my head. Particularly not ones thrown by the inebriated. My memory is porous enough, thank you. So that's why I'm keeping it to myself. In case any darts players turn up. Or people who want Steps on the jukebox. Or that song by Space, what was it? Avenging Angels. I HATE that song. Stupid, bloody earworm of a song [mutters to self for quite some while].

Ahem.

[Sighs] Of course, now I've told you that it does exist... Aha! Or have I? I'm probably just rambling on nonsensically as an excuse to whinge about that vacuous Space song, aren't I? Grrr, stupid Space song. (Yes, I know, it was years ago, but I really, really hate it). Anyway, even if it did exist (the pub, that is), before you'd be able to find it, you'd have to find a way across the river of things I've learned and since forgotten, or failed to ever need again. Which is frankly huge. So that's ok then.

Right, this conversation I didn't overhear:

Bloke A: Peel back the layers of misery and what have you got?

Bloke B: A banana?

A: Don’t be silly.

B: You tell me then.

A: You wouldn’t understand… Ok, fine – the answer’s a banana.

B: Ha!

A: It’s a very shrivelled banana.

B: So? It’s still a banana. Ha, ha! I was right.

A: Fluke.

B: You’ll never know.

A: Ok, then. Tell me, what is behind the innocent joy of this small child? The one with the cut knee and the haircut so obviously done by his mother.

B: Hmm… the chance discovery of a species of sub-aqueous ants by a taxi driver holidaying in Belize?

A: That was too easy. Best of five?

B: Bring it on.

A: The frothing oceans of anguish and torment swum by the whale of hope are a product of what?

B: I don’t know. Wishful thinking?

A: Unlucky. They’re a product of my fevered imagination.

B: No fair. That’s cheating. Ask me another.

A: I will do, but that one stands.

B: Fine, but you can’t do that again. Anyway, it’s not like it matters, I only have to get one more.

A: Oh, I wouldn’t be too confident. Try this for size. If I turn left at the bank of insincere declarations of love, continuing past the well of embarrassing childhood incidents and on through the park of tortured metaphors, why have I not reached the point of no return?

B: Is the pawnshop of broken dreams on your right?

A: Yep. And the long night interrupted by acid indigestion is just nextdoor.

B: Hmm, I see. Well, I don’t know that area too well, but I would guess… that it suddenly closed down and was replaced by a Starbucks.

A: Dammit, you’re good! How did you get that?

B: Well, you know. They’re popping up everywhere these days, aren’t they?

A: Yeah, I suppose so. Another drink?

B: Cheers. I’ll have a grande frappucino – shot of caramel, hold the whipped cream.

A: You can’t have that, it’s a pub.

B: Not anymore. Look around you.

A: Bloody Starbucks…