A Roadie On The Road - Creative Non - Fiction

This will be an assessed piece of Creative Non-Fiction. Not quite sure if I have a firm grasp on the concept of this yet as to me Non-Fiction is hard solid facts and nothing creative to add but that's me.

Being a roadie is a good laugh sometimes. Oh who am I kidding it's nearly always a laugh, if I am frank. Which I am not called Frank by the way. We had just come back from Romania and the band had a gig at the Bristol O2 arena the next day. I, myself, am I massive fan of Bristol. It's culture. The history. The landscapes. The architecture. The boys, however, were not so sure.
"Couldn't we stay in Cardiff, then head over to Bristol in time for the gig?" Daniel asked.
"No. We're here now. I know what would convince you to stay. A pint of Guinness in the Cartwheel," I offered and yanked his arm out of the tour bus. The other two band members reluctantly followed. The lads brightened up when they saw the pub. Now they have been to many pubs over the years and this one was probably the same as any old pub they had been to. I know that Mark, however, cannot resist a good ol' Guinness and can down a pint of that murky black stuff in four seconds flat. This pub was probably the same as any old pub that they had been to. Or not.

We stepped inside and instantly got a whiff of unpleasant body odour that filled the atmosphere whilst the disgusting stench of cigarettes wafted from the leather seats and hit us like a bulldozer. A corpulent being struggled in through the back door. His sweaty hands smothered the cream wallpaper. To be honest he could have done with one less spare tyre. Layers of fat from his colossal stomach hung over his jogging bottoms. He wiped his hands over his stubbly chin and greeted his friends with a groan and a moan that came from deep within. His friends looked worn and weathered, possibly due to a tsunami of work. Having said that, the lads do not look like that and they never get a break. They gathered around the glowing remains of a fire that sat opposite the bar, whilst the flames cast grotesque shadows of the men on the cracked and broken, maroon ceiling.

At the bar, an old barmaid pulled a pint of Guinness for a hefty biker type that had large, artistic and brightly coloured tattoos slithering up his muscular arms. His leather jacket lay forgotten on the seat next to him and he let out a vociferous sound after gulping down his Guinness in five seconds. Mark still holds the record.

The chattering among the drinkers was shattered as a screech from a wannabe pop star took the stage in an attempt to provide the crowd with some entertainment.
"I half want to go up there and show her how it's done myself," Daniel said. He seemed in awe that someone could even sound that bad.
With the shock of the sound, everyone turned their heads momentarily towards the singer and the commotion that came with her entrance. They all soon ignored the bellowing singer, taking more interest in the various assortment of drinks.

The lights were switched off and the daylight did its best to filter in through the layers of filth that had amalgamated onto the window. The distorted sunlight hit people's faces at strange angles and we can see the indents on their faces.

In a corner of the pub is a battered pool table that shows its antiquity. A couple of middle aged blokes stood around the table and it seemed as if they had pool balls in their eyes from staring at them so much. One of the guys took a shot with the speckled cue ball and the balls hit each other with such ferocity that they pinged away from each other like the slightest touch burned their skins.

To the side of the pool table was a bunch of arcade games which stood proudly. Their gleam invites people in, like a meat to a pack of wolves, to have a go and rid them of the jackpot inside which is causing them constipation.

This was different to the many pubs that the lads had been to. Other pubs had pine tables, bright halogen spotlights, fake ornamental plants, cool air conditioning and a smell of coffee that hit you as soon as you set foot in the pub. Not the smell of body odour and foul cigarettes.
"What were you saying about convincing us to stay?" Daniel asked.
I felt my face go crimson with embarrassment.
"Next stop ... Cardiff," I said grimly and led the boys out of the atrocious pub.