North of the council estate on Penhill and south of Blunsdon, Swindon becomes a hilly and modern suburban atrocity designed to discourage casual travel either by foot or vehicle. If you don’t belong here, you should stay in your easily navigable poverty. This is not to say that there is anything posh or sophisticated up there, no; in fact, it is quite the opposite–insular and willfully ignorant.
The blaring disco music in the Jovial Monk seemed to suit the entirely male clientele as did the pornographic calendar on the wall. I have nothing against a strip club and am glad there wasn’t a cover (or dress code) but it was (calendar notwithstanding) devoid of naked ladies. Indeed, except for the friendly barmaid (the only good aspect of this disappointing visit other than the well presented pint of 3B) there was not a woman in sight.