After a week-long illness that saw a goitre-like lymph node swell on my jaw on Monday (from Tuesday I looked like, in succession, the Elephant Man, Churchill, and Brando in the Godfather) I was really looking forward to a run and another pub. Walking into the Windmill at about the 3.5 mile mark to find the bar packed made me think that this place MUST be doing something right; but, I could not possibly say what that something is. It took fifteen minutes to get served although there were idle employees about, the foul Greene King IPA was obviously tended poorly, it was overpriced, and the food that passed by smelt a bit gamy and looked a bit overcooked. On top of all that, they seemed a bit put out that they had such good custom.
I believe the crowd probably was there for the televised Man City vs Man United football match, the team names making for the most homoerotic sounding sporting event of the autumn. I believe this is the only pub on this estate as well, so I guess the punters are playing the cards they have been dealt…fortunately, I don’t have to put any more dosh in the management’s pockets.
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