TO read the papers you'd think it was only young people who get boozed up in pubs and kick off.
But the other day in Hell's Waiting Room, New Brighton, there was an almighty ding-dong between two auld girls both in their eighties.
The two pals - Marlena and Edna - got into a row about who should buy the next round.
Lordy, people were diving for cover as the biddies yelled at each other, effing and jeffing, each doing a fair impression of an Alex Ferguson 'hairdryer' rant.
And on Monday night Burly the barman blew his top in the music room while he was singing ...

Burly was halfway through Leaving On A Jet Plane and was distracted by the raucous ranting of Dixie the Jazzman, who was busy telling the assembled posse about his adventures at a soul weekend in Brum.
Now Burly is a good singer, to be sure, but it was a bit harsh of him to yell at Dixie to "shut the **** up".
It's a pub not a concert hall, after all. If people want to talk over the singers they have a right to.
Not all the singers are as a good as Burly so who can blame folk from yammering on if they don't care much for the 'turn'?
Two of the musicians who are good are Edmundo the fiddler and his partner, operetta singer, Dame Julie. She does a powerful version of The Galway Shawl which always commands attention.
Another muso who is always a hit in the Waiting Room is Popstar Paul, who does great covers of songs by The Jam, Oasis, The Who as well as his own songs.
Later on, it was Burly's turn to be told off. Billy Bustimes ripped into him for being too forceful when clearing the pub at the end of the night.
Then Cockerney Chappie saw his arse over some off-colour, and frankly unkind, remark made by Dixie.
But these outbursts were soon over and harmony of a sort restored.
On Bank Holiday Monday, the New Brighton Massive that meets in the Waiting Room decided to go for a bit of an outing.
Popping over to Liverpool was suggested, but in the end we jumped some cabs to Seacombe, where I'm told it is illegal for middle class people to live.
We went to a pub called the Mudflats because Tallulah Swells had heard there was a group on.
There was no group, actually, just a good juke box, so we stayed a few hours and I drank Trophy bitter, which I didn't think you could get any more.
It was a good crowd. Slutty Hardman, Mandy Mobiles, Alberre, Big Wayne, Quiet Jack and Dixie were there, along with myself and Tallulah.
Also in the house was Gorgeous Pouts, the young barmaid from the Waiting Room, who is always so smiley and cheerful.
And Billy Bustimes made an appearence and then promptly vanished.
It's a bit worrying. Did he vaporize or was he abducted by aliens? "Oi, you, get off my ******* flying saucer!"
Once again, I had foolishly gone out for the night without having my tea, so the pints of Trophy soon got to me, and later when we moved back to the Waiting Room I was feeling so woozy that I had to eat two packs of cheesy wheatybangs.
And after all that bitter, Konstable Ken went and bought me a huge glass of red wine.
The Konstable was in the pub without his missus, Mo Smiles, who has been in a massive sulk with him ever since he'd shouted at her early in the bank holiday weekend.
What had happened is that the Konstable had been out supervising the kids as they built sandcastles on New Brighton beach, while Mo went back to their house promising to cook up a big fry-up.
She put the sausages under the grill then went upstairs to have a bath, forgetting all about the food.
The Konstable returned to a house filled with acrid smoke. Because while Mo had been soaking dreamily in the Radox, the sausages had been incinerated.
I don't know how long Mo will have a cob on. The Konstable says she can keep it up for weeks.
Meanwhile, Monday evening finished off well with music from Lofty the harmonica and banjo player and Rocky Geetar, who was in restrained form (which is a good thing).
I went to bed happy, but woke up with a half-eaten corned-beef butty squashed onto the bedclothes.

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