Right Blokes. Wrong Place. A One-Shot Short Story by Scott Evans
If there was a world record for the slowest pub crawl in London, Terry, Neil, and Daz were determined to smash it. Nine pubs in, and they were still within spitting distance of the station they started from.
The Crown and Cider was their ninth stop—a tatty boozer off a backstreet that smelt of vinegar crisps and bleach. Inside, it was all sticky carpets and slot machines pretending they still paid out. The kind of place that felt like a leftover from a time when pubs were pubs, and not all gastro menus and fairy lights.
Daz, pint in hand, leaned on the bar like it owed him money. He was in mid-flow, regaling two bored women about an incident in Iraq that definitely didn’t happen. Neil and Terry sat at a corner table, watching him with that blend of fondness and second-hand embarrassment only old mates could manage.
“That’s the fifth time he’s told that story,” Neil muttered, sipping his Guinness.
“Yeah, and it’s changed every time,” Terry replied. “Last time it was Fallujah. This time it’s Basra. Next round and he’ll say it was Butlins.”
Neil smirked. He looked older than he felt. Same for Terry—hair thinner, bellies rounder, knees making noises no knee should make. But the laughter was still there. And the rhythm of it all—the taking the piss, the old stories, the comfort of familiarity—was something they hadn’t felt in years.
Terry nudged his crisps toward Neil. “How’s work?”
Neil shrugged. “Redundant last month. They said ‘downsizing’. I think it was just code for ‘too old, too white, and too northern’.”
“You should’ve told ’em you identify as a startup. Might’ve kept your job.”
Neil laughed. It was a dry, honest sound. “How about you? Still playing groundskeeper at that private estate?”
“Yeah. Hedge trimming, pond skimming, and the odd bit of fox diplomacy when the owners aren’t watching.”
Daz returned with two pints and a grin wide enough to start a war. “Ladies are off to the loo. I’ve got about four minutes to seem more impressive. What’ve I missed?”
“Only everything since 2010,” said Terry.
They clinked glasses. No toasts, no speeches—just that unspoken camaraderie forged in youth and tempered by time.
Then came the silence. The comfortable kind. The kind that only blokes who’ve seen each other at their best and worst can share.
“Y’know,” Neil said, after a long pause, “I miss this. Just… this.”
Terry nodded. “Same. Feels like we’ve all been sleepwalking for a bit.”
Daz raised his glass. “To waking up then. Even if it’s in a pub with a jukebox stuck on bloody Adele.”
From the speakers: Never mind, I’ll find someone like you…
The three of them groaned in synchronised agony.
“Right, next pub?” Daz said, already on his feet.
Neil and Terry followed, moving slower now. Not from the booze, but from the weight of years. Still, they moved.
Pub ten was waiting. So was the quiz.
They spilled into pub number ten, The Fox & Firkin, with the subtlety of a stag do on a bender. Neon quiz posters clung to the windows, half torn by damp hands and rain. Inside, it stank of spilt ale, damp coats, and someone’s forgotten doner.
The lads barely made it to a free table before the quizmaster bellowed, “Team names in, pens down in five!”
Daz whipped out a biro from his inside jacket like a trained magician. “Gentlemen, I present: ‘Quiztina Aguilera’.”
Neil gave a slow, theatrical nod. “Strong.”
Terry frowned. “I still prefer Norfolk and Chance.”
“Absolutely not,” said Neil. “Not after the Christmas do incident.”
The quizmaster, a wiry bloke with the energy of a broken fridge, clacked the mic. “Right, round one: military history. Question one: In what year did Operation Desert Storm commence?”
Daz perked up. “Easy. 2003.”
Neil side-eyed him. “That was Iraq. Desert Storm was ’91. Gulf War One. Come on.”
“Ah,” Daz grinned. “Close enough. It had sand.”
The pub buzzed with conversation. Pint glasses clinked, the radiator hissed like it was about to give up, and a couple in the corner were already arguing about capital cities.
“Question two,” said the host, “What’s the minimum number of soldiers in a British Army section?”
Daz scribbled confidently. “Ten.”
Neil leaned in. “It’s eight. I saw a documentary on it.”
“Yeah, but I’m adding two for morale.”
“Are you still counting that bloke from Call of Duty who looked like he smelled of wet dog?”
Terry stared down at his pint. “If this is the military round, we’re screwed when they get to science.”
And they did.
“Question five: What’s the chemical symbol for potassium?”
Terry blinked. “Is it… K?”
Daz slammed the table. “Yes! Like Special K. That’s me. I knew I was a chemical marvel.”
Neil muttered, “More like a volatile compound.”
The music round kicked off and the pub went dim. A bassline kicked through the speakers—cheesy, nostalgic, and just loud enough to demand shouting.
“Name the artist!” the host shouted.
The opening bars of ’Livin’ La Vida Loca’ blared out.
Daz sang along off-key. “Ricky Martin! You can’t throw that at me and expect me to stay quiet.”
An older couple glanced over disapprovingly as Daz threw in dance moves from a forgotten wedding disco.
Meanwhile, Neil scribbled answers while Terry stealthily Googled under the table.
“Oi!” said Daz. “No phones!”
“Mate,” Terry replied, “at this stage of the crawl, we need all the help we can get.”
By the end of the quiz, their answer sheet looked like a crime scene: pints ringed every corner, a doodle of Daz labelled “Operation Desert Sausage,” and at least four answers scratched out in biro fury.
They didn’t win. Obviously.
But when the winning team—‘Universally Challenged’—stood up to collect their prize (a crate of craft lager and a bag of pork scratchings), Daz gave a slow, sarcastic clap. “I hope you enjoy your shallow, joyless victory.”
Outside, the rain had started again. Neil zipped up his jacket. “Alright, pub eleven?”
Terry nodded. “Then food.”
Daz spun dramatically. “Then destiny.”
They stumbled out of The Fox & Firkin like three dads who’d just won a dance-off they never entered. Rain slicked the pavement, taxi lights blurred through mist, and the smell of meat and disappointment wafted from the kebab van across the street.
Daz squinted. “Right lads, tactical refuel. I’m talking doner, chips, all the trimmings.”
Terry was already halfway across the road. “God tier idea.”
The kebab van was called Meat & Two Vague Promises, its signage flickering like it too was regretting life choices. Behind the counter, a bloke with a thousand-yard stare took their order without a word. Possibly ex-Navy. Possibly just traumatised by what he’d seen at 2am on a Saturday.
Neil eyed the rotating elephant leg of meat. “What even is that made of?”
Daz answered with a mouthful of chips. “Love.”
They perched on a bench outside the closed vape shop next door, unwrapping their foil treasures like sacred relics.
“Remember Baza?” Daz said, pausing mid-bite. “He used to eat two of these before the gym. Said it lined the stomach for morale.”
Neil nodded, chewing. “He also got arrested for setting fire to a portaloo.”
“Context,” Daz said. “It was freezing.”
A group of younger lads staggered past, dressed like they’d raided a TikTok fashion haul. One of them bumped into Daz without looking back.
Terry held his kebab aloft like a righteous scroll. “Respect your elders, you little bastards!”
Neil raised his can of lager. “To dignity. And its swift decline.”
They laughed. It wasn’t just the beer. It was the years. The shared stories. The way they never quite said what they meant unless they’d had six pints and half a kebab.
A car horn blasted nearby. A Vauxhall Astra was parked at a ridiculous angle, like it had been launched by trebuchet.
Daz squinted. “That right there is suspicious parking.”
Neil snorted. “You say that about every badly parked car.”
“Because I’m trained to spot threats. Look at the nose angle, the distance from kerb, the—”
Terry cut in. “Mate, it’s a student who can’t parallel park.”
But Daz was already pacing. “I’m telling you, this is classic recon posture. Surveillance vehicle. Tinted windows. Unmarked.”
“It’s a beige Astra,” Neil said. “If that’s surveillance, it’s undercover as an estate agent.”
Daz ignored them, eyes narrowed, scanning the van.
“Look,” Terry said, pointing, “Pub eleven’s next. That one with the sticky carpet and the pool table from the Cold War.”
Daz nodded, still chewing. “But I’m telling you, one day, this instinct will save lives.”
Neil raised an eyebrow. “It ever saved yours?”
“Not yet. But tonight’s young.”
As they approached pub eleven, the bass thumped through the walls like a heartbeat. Inside, it was chaos: blokes shouting over the jukebox, someone already singing Wonderwall in the corner, pool balls ricocheting off every rule of geometry.
Daz paused outside the door. “Gentlemen, let’s remember who we are.”
Terry nodded. “Middle-aged, mildly injured, possibly lactose intolerant.”
“Exactly,” Daz grinned. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”
They stepped into the noise and neon, kebab grease on their hands, pints in their near future, and just one pub left before everything changed.
They were deep into the crawl now—pub eleven, for anyone keeping count. The Dog & Hammer stood crooked on a corner like a tooth the council forgot to pull, its signage half-lit and flickering like a dying campfire.
Inside, the atmosphere was part post-match pint, part chemical spill. Rugby on the telly. Music that hadn’t been updated since Bluetooth was a miracle. Pint glasses fogged in their hands. The air was thick with wet dog, vape clouds, and a hint of urinal block.
Daz was flying. Not just tipsy. We’re talking orbit. He held court by the fruit machine, delivering slurred monologues about “the decline of British manufacturing” to a barmaid who had mastered the art of blinking while not listening.
Neil slumped into a ripped leather booth and exhaled like a pensioner easing into a bath. Terry arrived seconds later with a tray full of doom—three pints and a single bowl of mixed nuts that looked older than Daz’s last medical.
“You know,” Neil said, stirring his pint with a straw someone had left in the ashtray, “there’s a fine line between nostalgia and early-onset dementia.”
Terry raised his glass. “And we are pole-vaulting over it.”
The pub crowd had thickened. Lads in tight shirts bellowing football chants, a woman in her sixties annihilating a karaoke rendition of “Holding Out for a Hero,” and someone trying to chat up the quiz host from earlier, who clearly regretted every life choice that brought them here.
Daz eventually staggered over and collapsed beside them, panting. “I just told a guy that I was in the Special K Division. He said, ‘Is that with the cereal or the narcotics?’ I said, ‘Yes.’”
Neil gave a pitying shake of his head. “You are an absolute liability.”
Daz grinned. “A legendary one. In my own mess tin.”
They paused, as if even they knew that one-liner had gone too far.
The door burst open and a gust of London’s finest piss-scented wind rolled through. Two blokes in cheap suits wandered in, talking in hushed tones. One nodded at Daz.
Terry blinked. “Do you know him?”
“Nope,” said Daz, suddenly too casual. “But watch this.”
He stood up, adjusted his jacket like it was parade day, and approached the newcomers. They were clearly not local. Too clean, too uptight, and definitely not pub eleven material.
“Evening,” Daz said, tone shifting into that posh-but-not-really waffable voice he used to get past door staff. “Special K Division. We’re on track. The drop happens at Pub Twelve. You’ll get the signal. Until then, this conversation never happened.”
The men exchanged a look, then nodded—a bit too earnestly.
Daz returned to the table. “Sorted. We are now officially part of something.”
Neil looked alarmed. “Daz, did you just insert us into an actual intelligence operation?”
“Can you insert someone into something that doesn’t exist?”
Terry shrugged. “Either way, we’ve made it.”
They toasted, pints clinking under the sodium lights and poor decisions.
Daz leaned back. “You know what this means, boys?”
Neil rolled his eyes. “Pub twelve.”
Daz pointed dramatically. “Destiny.”
They didn’t leave the Dog & Hammer so much as escape it. The air had turned thick with vape clouds and rising drama—a minor shouting match over pool rules had escalated into someone quoting Churchill and trying to arm wrestle a fruit machine.
Outside, the air was colder, the streets shinier with fresh rain, and their kebabs were just distant memories. Daz led the way, half-dancing across puddles. “Shortcut through the estate,” he said, pointing to a barely-lit alley that looked like it had been used in at least four different crime documentaries.
Terry stopped. “That’s not a shortcut. That’s a mugging with extra steps.”
“Trust me,” Daz grinned. “I’ve got instincts.”
Neil muttered, “Your instincts once got us kicked out of Thorpe Park.”
Still, they followed. Because that’s what you do when someone says, “Trust me,” on pint eleven.
The alley was narrow, lined with bins and broken dreams. A fox bolted past, giving them all a minor heart attack.
Daz froze. “Told you. Surveillance fox. They’re watching us.”
Neil deadpanned, “Great. First the Astra, now the urban wildlife. We’re on a list somewhere.”
Halfway through the alley, they encountered a group of teenagers vaping aggressively under a broken lamp. Hoodies up, faces shadowed.
One of them stepped forward. “You lot lost?”
Daz, without hesitation, snapped into his Special K persona. “On mission. Pub Twelve. Classified route. Walk on.”
The teenager blinked. “…what?”
Neil dragged Daz by the elbow. “Please stop trying to trigger a diplomatic incident with year elevens.”
Once through the alley, they emerged by a row of boarded-up shops. A faded sign above read: The Royal Oak – Function Room Available. Pub Twelve. Somehow, it still existed.
“Made it,” Terry said, out of breath.
Daz nodded. “Told you. Tactical shortcut.”
Neil checked his phone. “We’ve lost fifteen minutes, a bit of dignity, and I think I might’ve pulled something.”
Inside The Royal Oak, it was quieter. Dim lights, a scratched-up jukebox humming softly, and only a few regulars eyeing them with the suspicion usually reserved for tax inspectors or people who say “networking opportunity.”
They ordered pints and found a battered booth by the window.
Terry exhaled. “Pub twelve.”
Daz raised his glass. “Where legends go to die or karaoke.”
Just then, the two suited men from The Dog & Hammer entered. They scanned the room, locked eyes with the lads, and nodded.
Neil leaned in. “Okay, what if this isn’t a joke anymore?”
Terry whispered, “Do we run?”
Daz grinned. “No. We lean in.”
He stood as the men approached.
“You boys ready?” the taller one asked.
Daz nodded solemnly. “Always.”
And just like that, the line between Walter Mitty fantasy and whatever-the-hell-this-was blurred. Again.
They stumbled into the twelfth and final pub purely because it was open and vaguely resembled a building. But this one was different. Too clean. No sticky floors, no jukebox murdering Oasis, no chalkboard declaring “Karaoke Friday.” Just silence. And two men in suits by the door.
Terry paused. “This… doesn’t feel right.”
Neil frowned. “Where’s the bar?”
Before they could backtrack, one of the suited men opened the door. “You’re late.”
Daz, beer-brave and kebab-fuelled, didn’t blink. “Special K Division. Delay at Pub Eleven. Hostile presence near the fruit machine.”
The man nodded, holding the door.
Neil hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”
Daz grinned. “Rolling with it.”
Inside, rows of chairs faced a projector screen. A few people in dark clothes sat already, scribbling on notepads. Maps on the wall. Red string. Coffee that smelled of tension and government budget cuts.
Another suited man at the front gave them a once-over. “You’re sitting in?”
Daz saluted with two fingers. “Till exfil, yes.”
They took seats at the back. Daz leaned over. “This is it, lads. We’ve been activated.”
Terry whispered, “This is clearly not a pub.”
“No, this is a safehouse briefing. Classic setup. We’re the walk-ins. They’ve been waiting for us.”
The lights dimmed. A woman at the front stood — sharp suit, short dark hair, eyes like she’d seen every file and read between every line. Ezra.
She tapped the screen. A grainy satellite image appeared. Then blueprints. Names. Timelines.
“We’ve had chatter,” she said. “Something’s coming. We don’t have full clarity yet, but what we do know is this: we need eyes and ears on the ground.”
Neil leaned over. “We need to leave. Now.”
But before they could, a man entered. Quiet. Measured. Whispered something in Ezra’s ear. She nodded, then pointed—straight at them.
“Those three. Get them kitted up.”
Terry blinked. “Us?”
The quiet man nodded. “Special K, right?”
Daz stood tall. “Daz, Terry, Neil. Codename: Cornflakes. Ready to deploy.”
Neil buried his face in his hands. “Oh God.”
Ezra looked them over, impassive. “You wanted in, lads. Now you’re in. And whatever happens next? You brought it on yourselves.”
Daz was beaming like a schoolkid chosen for the footie team.
Terry mumbled, “We’re going to die, aren’t we?”
Neil sighed. “Probably. But at least we’ll die on expenses.”
Daz puffed out his chest. “At last. Destiny.”
Epilogue — Right Blokes, Wrong Place
They never did find pub twelve.
Not that it mattered.
By the time the paperwork was signed (somewhere between the NDA and the “voluntary” service clause), Neil had stopped trying to make sense of it, Terry had quietly accepted his fate, and Daz… well, Daz had already downloaded a walkie-talkie app and was referring to himself as “actual.”
They weren’t trained, or ready. They weren’t even entirely sober. But somehow, that made them perfect.
In a world full of specialists and analysts, algorithms and operatives, sometimes what you need… is three slightly past-it blokes who say yes before thinking.
They didn’t stop being Walter Mittys. They just ended up in a situation where being a Walter Mitty was exactly what got them through the door.
Right blokes. Wrong place.
And in the end? That was enough.
Be careful what you pretend to be. One day, someone might believe you.
More short stories here.