doing. Keeping a tight hold, he pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket and extracted a fiver.
‘Give me two and I’ll give you this.’
Dipstick hesitated. ‘How about we give you one back so we get three each?’
‘You drive a hard bargain.’
‘Definitely… one of them.’
Tim handed over the fiver and was half surprised to geta pound back.
‘Ok, see you around.’
‘Not if we see you first,’ said Dipstick.
‘He’s only joking, he doesn’t know when to stop,’ was Lightbulb’s farewell contribution.
Tim walked briskly to the pub. His head was clearer now, and his thirst sharper.
The Bombardier
faced flat-fronted onto the street. From outside, its only notable feature was a large pub-sign that sported a muscular red-coated gunner about to fire a cannon gun. It seemed an odd image for a student city. Then he recalled the army garrison that he’d noticed while house searching.
Inside, the pub was half empty. The décor maintained the martial theme with garish pictures of miscellaneous British military victories on the walls that were also festooned with ancient rifles and cutlasses. This did not appear to be quite his scene. Only a pressing thirst prevented him from executing a quick about turn to search out an alternative watering hole. It was no wonder the kids made sure they got their money before he’d seen this place. He scanned the portrayals of martial glory wondering if the artist’s intention was perhaps ironic. Looking around the notion of parody seemed plausible, the pub’s clientele appeared more boho than military.
He made his way to the bar. Behind were two burly bartenders wearing identical yellow tee-shirts printed with a pink-coloured cannon gun with pink cannon balls on each side. The image did not suffer from over-sophistication.
One of the bartenders approached him, smiling broadly.
‘Lovely to see you Sir. What can I get you?’ His voice was an octave or so higher than Tim had expected and sweetly pitched.
‘A pint of your best bitter and do you do cooked food?’
‘Certainly Sir… We’ve still got curry left or sausage and mash. Green salad if you want it. Oh yes, and in the spirit of multiculturalism we’ve adopted a hybrid dish called toadin the chapati.’
‘I’ll have a curry please, the salad and a round of bread on the side, brown if you’ve got it.’
‘No problem. Except that the bread would be white, sir. Is that ok?’
‘That’s fine, I don’t discriminate.’
‘I’ll bring it to you, Sir.’
Tim found a seat at an empty table. As he glanced around his impression that the pub was gay friendly was confirmed. Several people wore tea-shirts with gay pride slogans and one muscular young man wore a jacket proclaiming his support for Stonewall. Nobody had gone for the cannonball t-shirt favoured by the bartenders and prominently on sale behind the bar at twenty-five per cent off half-price. Most of the couples seemed to be same-sex but a number of apparent cross-dressers made it difficult to tell.
Tim was beginning to feel his dip into the real world was taking a decidedly surreal turn. Not that he considered queers surreal. He was simply bemused by the gap between his intention at the start of his ‘sortie’ and what was emerging. But bemusement was a lot better than the bombed out state he’d been in earlier.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the bartender with his meal. ‘There you are Sir. Is there anything else you might want?’
Tim took in the bartender’s fifteen stone of beef packed into a frame of about five feet six inches.
Nothing you can give me
- was the un-P C thought that popped up. Out loud he said, ‘No. That’s excellent. Many thanks.’
When eating alone in a pub Tim usually read the newspaper. He found the two activities relaxing although they did not always combine elegantly. On this occasion he didn’t have a paper with him and couldn’t spot one in the pub. No matter, there was plenty here to
‘Give me two and I’ll give you this.’
Dipstick hesitated. ‘How about we give you one back so we get three each?’
‘You drive a hard bargain.’
‘Definitely… one of them.’
Tim handed over the fiver and was half surprised to geta pound back.
‘Ok, see you around.’
‘Not if we see you first,’ said Dipstick.
‘He’s only joking, he doesn’t know when to stop,’ was Lightbulb’s farewell contribution.
Tim walked briskly to the pub. His head was clearer now, and his thirst sharper.
The Bombardier
faced flat-fronted onto the street. From outside, its only notable feature was a large pub-sign that sported a muscular red-coated gunner about to fire a cannon gun. It seemed an odd image for a student city. Then he recalled the army garrison that he’d noticed while house searching.
Inside, the pub was half empty. The décor maintained the martial theme with garish pictures of miscellaneous British military victories on the walls that were also festooned with ancient rifles and cutlasses. This did not appear to be quite his scene. Only a pressing thirst prevented him from executing a quick about turn to search out an alternative watering hole. It was no wonder the kids made sure they got their money before he’d seen this place. He scanned the portrayals of martial glory wondering if the artist’s intention was perhaps ironic. Looking around the notion of parody seemed plausible, the pub’s clientele appeared more boho than military.
He made his way to the bar. Behind were two burly bartenders wearing identical yellow tee-shirts printed with a pink-coloured cannon gun with pink cannon balls on each side. The image did not suffer from over-sophistication.
One of the bartenders approached him, smiling broadly.
‘Lovely to see you Sir. What can I get you?’ His voice was an octave or so higher than Tim had expected and sweetly pitched.
‘A pint of your best bitter and do you do cooked food?’
‘Certainly Sir… We’ve still got curry left or sausage and mash. Green salad if you want it. Oh yes, and in the spirit of multiculturalism we’ve adopted a hybrid dish called toadin the chapati.’
‘I’ll have a curry please, the salad and a round of bread on the side, brown if you’ve got it.’
‘No problem. Except that the bread would be white, sir. Is that ok?’
‘That’s fine, I don’t discriminate.’
‘I’ll bring it to you, Sir.’
Tim found a seat at an empty table. As he glanced around his impression that the pub was gay friendly was confirmed. Several people wore tea-shirts with gay pride slogans and one muscular young man wore a jacket proclaiming his support for Stonewall. Nobody had gone for the cannonball t-shirt favoured by the bartenders and prominently on sale behind the bar at twenty-five per cent off half-price. Most of the couples seemed to be same-sex but a number of apparent cross-dressers made it difficult to tell.
Tim was beginning to feel his dip into the real world was taking a decidedly surreal turn. Not that he considered queers surreal. He was simply bemused by the gap between his intention at the start of his ‘sortie’ and what was emerging. But bemusement was a lot better than the bombed out state he’d been in earlier.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the bartender with his meal. ‘There you are Sir. Is there anything else you might want?’
Tim took in the bartender’s fifteen stone of beef packed into a frame of about five feet six inches.
Nothing you can give me
- was the un-P C thought that popped up. Out loud he said, ‘No. That’s excellent. Many thanks.’
When eating alone in a pub Tim usually read the newspaper. He found the two activities relaxing although they did not always combine elegantly. On this occasion he didn’t have a paper with him and couldn’t spot one in the pub. No matter, there was plenty here to
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