Turning point

I stood at the bar, my left foot on the brass rail and both hands loosely clenched on the smooth wood, the reason for this stance was two fold. Firstly, it made me look cool and hard. (I think it did anyway). Secondly, and the more important of the two, it was a safe, stable position.
Whilst waiting for my pint, I looked round the smoke filled bar, the clientele were straight out of movie set, coal miners, drug addicts and social dossers. On the grapevine, this was the place to be if you fancied yourself as a drinker. Yes, The Swan, down town Cannock’s very own den of antiquity was the place to be.
I turned round adopting a James Dean (look at me Ladies) pose, and observed the goings on.
Someone had set the pile of empty crisp and scratching packets on fire, acrid smoke bellowed forth whilst the lads took on the roll of firefighters, and started spitting jets of flat lager at the ashtray inferno.
In order to stay dry, one man ‘s sudden movement caused another to spill his ale. A fight broke out, not the violent, glass in the face type, but a cowboy saloon type, tables, chairs, bodies, the lot went up.
I drank my freshly pulled pint, placed the empty glass back on the bar with a determined thud, and walked out into the busy market place.
“I’ve had enough of this shit” I said to myself, and stomped off to the Army Recruiting Office and signed up.