In an old school pub, one lit by the grubby glow of gambling machines, where the air turns blue and the beer spills unselfconsciously, there is a sense of unpredictability, a freedom to act that touch more wildly, a coiled sense that things could go good or bad.
A man needs more than just organic food and comfortable cushions on a night out. He needs adventure. These old dives, closing down at a rate of 26 a week, still provide them, as they have done for centuries.
It’s something we’ll miss if we wish it away too hastily in our relentless pursuit of locally sourced organic roasts and continental beers.
So rather than sneer at the shit British pub, find yours, pull up a stool and enjoy a pork pie. Just don’t order the wine.
Due to my mistaken apprehension that the Bomber's rugby season stated today rather than next week I find myself at an unexpected loose end. A boozer with the footie on calls methinks.
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