aka (Ring the fucking bell)

I don’t think anyone has ever anticipated the ringing of last orders as we did last night in the Lyric. A tiny pub opposite the Windmill Theatre (soon to be subject of a film which has Bob Hoskins naked in it), it is a pleasant place to sup and chat (though it does seem to have an accoustic amplifier in there). Nevertheless as we waited for this bell to ring, we got increasingly drunk. Suddenly the process of calling last orders became fascinating to us: do they call it at 10:50, 10:55 or the illegal 11 on the dot. But why would you call it at 10:50 in a pub where there are only ten punters (and we were eight of them). What if this pub already had a late licence.

Luckily it didn’t. Though from tonight the Lyric can be open til 1am most nights. So we had picked a perfect venue for out experiment and as last orders interrupted out game of Dirty Crossword we felt a slight frisson that time was passing. Then we said fuck it! (And other rude words what were in the crossword). Roll on sensible drinking!