Are we going in here?
Course. Good starting point this.
But there’s vomit on the floor outside. It’s 6.30.
I know. It’s good this place, hardly ever get vomit on the floor inside. Here you go. A nice pint. Get it down you.
Could I have a gin and tonic?
You do talk an awful lot, don’t you? That’s probably why you’re taking so long over that pint.
You’ve nearly finished!
I know. I didn’t spend all that time going on about gin and tonics. Now will you hurry up.
Oh god. It’s flat and warm. It’s horrible.
It is horrible, yes. But, being flat and warm, you can drink it quickly. Cold and gassy, you have to find time to burp and deal with cold water shock. Now go on, finish it up. Breath through your nose and it’ll go down easier. Nice one. Right, come on, we’ve been here long enough.
We’ve been here five minutes.
Exactly. Don’t worry, we’ll make the time up in the next place.
“The Angry Old Bastard” – sounds lovely.
Historical pub name that is.
Really? Where does it come from then?
Well, I would imagine that, at some point, there was an angry old bastard in here. Here you go. A nice pint.
When are we eating?
We’ll get a packet of crisps in the next place.
No, he’s only got black pudding flavoured crisps and I’m British, but I’m not *that* British. What- why aren’t you drinking?
Oh sorry, I forgot, I’m only allowed to luxuriate in the ambiance of “The Angry Old Bastard” for a micro-second.
Yes. Sarcasm is all very well mate, but I’m on the clock here. I need to get eight pints down me and be in bed for ten o’clock. I’ve got a presentation to give first thing, I want a good night’s sleep.
Won’t you be terribly hungover?
Yes. But I’ve got a cure for that.
A hangover cure?
Yeah. Make yourself throw up as soon as you wake up. Drink eight cups of tea, a can of beer, and then throw up again.
And that works?
Yes. Well, no. I’m still working on it. Maybe nine cups of tea? I feel like I’m close. Come on. Next pub.
I can’t hear anything? What? Is that music?
Classic jungle gabba hardcore, I think. It was a really popular dance music scene one Tuesday afternoon in 2002. Anyway, ignore it. Remember, you’re not here to listen to music, you’re here to drink. So, here’s a nice pint. Get that down you and we’ll get on to the next pub.
Oh, this is much nicer. Oh yes, this is charming. Thatched roof. Very authentic. This is what I always imagined an old English pub would be like.
Yeah, alright Bill Bryson, calm down. Here you go, a nice pint. And I got us some Scampi Fries.
Packets of crisps.
Stop moaning. The beer will have destroyed your tastebuds by now.
Okay. Where’s the bathroom?
Oh, you’ll have to wait till the next pub for all that.
They don’t have a bathroom here?
They have a bucket in an alley. Authenticity, my friend. You’re welcome to give it a go if you’re confident in your aim, but I’d leave it till the next place. I heard he’s had a lock fitted to the cubicle door. Come on.
This is empty.
Yeah, it’s shit.
Why are we going in then?
Because it’s on the way to where we want to go after this. Here you go. A nice pint.
Why’s no one in here?
They’ve all gone on to the next pub, I’d imagine. Much nicer than this one. Come on.
Oh yes. This is a bit nicer. Hey, there’s a DJ, shall we have a dance?
What? No, of course not. It’s not Friday. Here, a nice pint.
I’ve got to ask. Why are we out drinking heavily on a Tuesday evening?
Well, what else is there to do? We watched the last episode of that Sandman. The new Call of Duty’s not out for a few months. May as well pop out for a quick pint. You’re slowing down again.
Sorry. I’m getting a bit full. I might get a glass of wine next.
In the next pub? I wouldn’t, he brews it himself out of stones and his own blood. Come on.
I don’t feel too good.
Oh yes, you’re looking a bit peaky, as it goes. Here, a nice pint. That’ll perk you up. Or do you want to try a quick Tactical.
A Tactical Vomit. You go and throw up behind the bus stop. Frees up space for another beer or two. Helps get you over the line.
Remember when the rest of the world thought this country was classy?
Yeah. Always thought that was weird. We invented football hooliganism and chips and everyone still thinks we all live in a Jane Austin novel. Come on. Next pub.
That guy just asked if I want a fight.
Oh yeah? Dear me, he looks a bit rough, doesn’t he? What did you do to wind him up? Here, a nice pint.
Nothing. I just looked at him. He said “what are you looking at? Do you want a fight?”
Oh right. I see. Sorry, should have warned you – don’t look at people.
Well, they’ll think you want a fight. Come on. Finish that up, and we’ll get off home.
No more to drink?
What? No, of course not. We’ve had our eight pints. It’s a Tuesday. We’re not alcoholics.
Come on, we’ll walk back home. The rain’ll sober us up a bit, and try not to get in any more fights. Can’t take you anywhere. Hey, if you like, we could stop off for a cheeky curry on the way, we could have an extra pint.