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The George

Hits 2633 | Created 2006-05-10 | Modified 2007-05-23

So we're walking through the streets in the rain. I'm upset already as we spent a valuable 30 minutes of drinking time watching some god-awful move-to-spain-and-fix-up-an-old-house programme. The rain really doesn't improve our moods as we splash through puddles and scowl into the wind.



We enter the George and it's warm and not too busy. There aren't any seats, of course, but there is a little space at the bar. The Beer choice is disappointing, bitter-wise. I go for a Spitfire, as I seem to remember a good evening once drinking it. The wife has a lager top.

The staff are busy, no dedicated glass collector (so it seems) means that they're dashing around the pub inbetween serving drinks. There is a mild queue at the bar, but not bad for a Friday night. Someone has glued a lot of peanuts to the wall to spell 'peanuts'. They don't look appetising, but it is original.

The Spitfire is poor. No head, watery, soapy almost. I'm sure that you're supposed to pour bitter with the nozzle right at the bottom of the glass until the very end. All the staff I've seen in the last few weeks have used the nozzle, awkardly, like a lager tap, which could explain the crappy pints I've been having everywhere.

http://www.everything2.com/index.pl?node=How%20to%20Pull%20a%20Pint

We wander around the pub, looking for seats, and find a surprising covered beer garden complete with heaters. We sit and brood, recovering from our bad moods as we thaw, dry and calm down. The beer is passable, I muse, as I drink more. Blood rushes back into our hand and faces. Soon we're hot and pulling off clothes.

'It's drying out my eyeballs,' I complain.

'I'm hot on one side.' The wife complains.

Never happy eh? Human nature...

After another couple of pints we're happy and chatting and content to stay longer, but, no, it's last orders and we're herded like sheet into the pub at 11pm. We luckily find a beer-drenched table and sit at it for the last twenty minutes, during which time we're harassed with increasing vehemence by the tired staff.

Just before we leave my wife takes a bathroom trip. I suppose I look bored as I wait and lean on my hand, as, when I look up there is a pretty blonde girl mimicing me across the room. She pushes her fist into her cheek and pulls a bored face.

I grin.

She grins.

I pull a sad face.

She pulls a sad face.

We mimic each other for a while at which point she blows me a kiss. As I blow one back I find the wife standing beside me, looking evilly at the blonde girl.

'Oh, hello darling,' I say, calmly, 'shall we go?'

[insert appropriate conversation about blonde girl here, along with excuses]




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