Aren’t pubs great? Big social levellers, allowing us to drink perfectly brewed and measured pints and spirits, allowing us to enjoy each others company without worrying about who is going to clean up the fag ash from the floor. I prefer pubs to the alternative, indeed there is little wrong with pubs at all.
Except they close.
Even that is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes the good times and bonhomie can make you stay to the point that you have given ruin your telephone number and you might be expecting a call. And that call sounds like this:
“Want to pop round for a couple of beers?”
Luckily this is not a phrase often aid in London, as every lives so far apart. Popping round someones flat for a few extras therefore becomes logistically different, in a way that London is saving our livers. I was not so lucky last night, out int he centre of town with one of the few people I know who actually lives in the centre of town. And so we popped round for a couple of beers. Those beers being Westmalle Triple Trappist Ale at a nice nightcap strength of 9%. But wait, let’s wash that down with something, a generous slug of Brennivin – at a good 37.5%. Free poured, of course. The nightbus home became an epic journey.
You see the usual pub rules don’t apply round other peoples houses. Not only are you in a comfy, safe environment, but measures do not apply. Bottles of vodka, Jack Daniels, lurk on the shelves and soon get hoovered up. Ruin has no longer got your phone number, you wake up staring ruin in the face. Probably late for work. So this particular rule of ruin: always say yes when someone asks if you want one final drink around their place. Ouchy!