I walked past the building yesterday. The windows are already soaped up, but I swear I saw a shadow moving inside. Probably just the landlord, doing a final inventory of the empty spirit bottles. Or maybe it’s the ghost of that one drunk guy who bet his wedding ring on a game of pool in 2019.
Southwater will survive, of course. We’re a tough little town. But the vibe has shifted. You can feel it in the air—a little more quiet, a little more boring. The sparks of chaos have been snuffed out.
I asked a guy at the corner shop what he thought. He just shrugged and said, “Where am I supposed to get a cheap hangover now?” He had a point. The economic impact is real, people. Where will the local poets go to weep into their beer?
BILLY THE BUMS restaurant, Randburg - Restaurant reviews
A Eulogy for the Ashtray
Let’s be honest. Billy wasn’t just a bar; it was a lifestyle choice. A decision to prioritize terrible decisions and questionable company over, say, a good night’s sleep. You never went to Billy’s. You ended up there, like a stray sock in a dryer.
I’ll miss the smell. I’ll miss the way the floor would stick to your shoe with a satisfying schllurp. I’ll miss the philosophical debates about whether a hot dog is a sandwich, arguments that lasted until 3 AM.
Most of all, I’ll miss Billy himself. The man who, when asked why he named the bar after himself, replied: “So when I die, they have to keep saying my name.” Well, Billy. We’re still saying your name. And we’re pouring a stale one out for you tonight.
So here’s to the Bum’s Bar. Closed, but not forgotten. If you have a funny story from that place—and I know you do—tell it to a friend tonight. Keep the legend alive. Find another dive. But remember: you’ll never find another dive quite like that one. The carpet saw things no carpet should ever see.
Now, who’s got a fiver I can borrow? I’m just standing here, paying my respects.
