Monday, 17 June 2013


There’s a dartboard, its red foam surround pockmarked with many nights of games; the score from the last game is still up there, a survivor of a good night perhaps? 501 the game, ‘S’ was on 33 while ‘C’ finished off on 6, double 3. There’s a story there, the nights spent on the ochre, the old-fashioned pub game that possibly had its origin in the bowmen of the middle ages (or not). The bar is central, there’s a parquet floor and the tables and chairs have a school dining hall design; there’s a big telly and the game machine flashes on and off, urgent and epileptic. ‘I love you baby,’ says the woman at the bar on her phone; ‘he’s got 12 days leave’ she says to the barman after finishing her call. Next door, there are tables dressed for food. The Burton Bridge Porter is twangy and tweedy with a lambic like vinous character that suggests it’s spent a lot of time in the pipes. This is a friendly, very local, neighbourhood pub that stands in the middle of a row of terraces, picked out in cream. As I sit there more men come in with their wives and someone says ‘come dine with me’, while the pump clips continue their journey across the bare brick wall. Pub.

No comments:

Post a Comment