PUB REVIEW: LEITH DOCKERS CLUB

by Dave Hynes

EDINBURGH

Now the Leith Dockers Club may actually be worse than the Marksman, a hugely impressive feat in itself and especially considering their close proximity to each other. Reviewing the Dockers Club first entailed the question what on earth was it meant to be? Part concentration camp for Leith’s cretins, part asbo den for the cream of its renegades, part twat camp for its adolescent tribe the YLT, part palatial luxury for those who feel its gone too soft with all that bullshit about getting carpets and wallpaper and stuff, part breeding ground for Nasa projects and part brothel or at least site of rape for those females stupid enough to stay after six pm, the Dockers Club is a real melting pot of vices which is in a transitional point at the moment between its glorious past and uncertain future.

The drinks are dirt cheap, cheaper than Priscilla’s in fact. I think I got ten pints for six quid or something like that and even the punters were grumbling that a double whisky chaser will set them back 80p. It’s a bit like the interior of Notre Dame cathedral inside, as renaissance artwork gives the place such a reverent atmosphere. The sinners and saints flock here because they find bingo on Tuesday nights helps with confession.

I actually really like the Dockers Club. It’s a filthpit but so what? Real people, real prices, real pub all round. Good place for a first date to kick off actually, providing you don’t mind wanking into your pint glass as she finishes her knitting off.

Try and get yourself down on the weekends, it really comes alive with the sound of music. They were playing a group activity last Friday when I braved the Dockers Club with a new girl I’ve met. It looked like a cross between dominoes and bestiality but we took no notice and just carried on as usual. ‘ Cunt your tasty’ cried out one punter but he was talking to his pork scratching thankfully as both our hearts fluttered with the prospect this might be the first and last time either of us were together or even independently alive. When the macabre chorus of chainsaws started their dastardly symphony of gnashing teeth I felt insecure but they said it was just preparations for Sunday lunch. Phew!

Still, I was under no illusions it’s a pub full of cunts as they raped the pair of us on the pool table and started throwing darts in our eyes. I remember the last moments of consciousness as they were undergoing some kind of pagan ritual with my girl’s head used as the tap for draught, singing sea-shanties to the landlord’s fat daughter, and as I was skulled with a pool ball in a sock I tried to appeal to their rationality;

‘burning me won’t help your crops grow next year Mr Summerisle’ I scream but to no avail. They said I wasn’t local and that she was out my league anyway.

Be warned though, they are a selective bunch and business is booming so much they aren’t always open. Wow, now that’s chic.