The Crumpled Horn, Swindon

While sitting in the Liden Arms, clouds rolled in and I couldn’t use the sun for directions anymore.  Liden is all rolling hills and dead-end streets and footpaths that curve imperceptibly away from where you reckon they ought to be going, so I dashed around aimlessly until a spotted a footbridge over Dorcan into Eldene; at least that was generally the way back home.  The neighbourhood is a little shabbier in the places I was passing through than just across the bridge and when I finally found a little shopping plaza (mostly with corrugated steel protecting the shops closed for Sunday) I was amused to see a bunch of 9- and 10-year-olds climbing all over a large recycling dumpster trying to rock it over.  I bet houses are cheap here.

The recycling/recreation area was at the back of the Crumpled Horn and I couldn’t resist, so went in and ordered a Fosters from the long line of taps. “We’ve only got Carling.”  Cool, I like Carling and I had a look around while he poured it up.  The interior is weird, large timbered construction loosely spiraling up into the roof.  There was a tele playing Italian football and I tried to catch as much of the commentary as possible until some guys came in from the porch and started speaking in a strange language which turned out to be English, three of them with heavy southwest English twangs and the fourth with a definite Chicago accent.  He turned to me and said I was sweating like a runaway slave, but not knowing I was an American he was taken aback when I answered by nodding, knocking back half my pint, then saying, “Let me ask you something important…Sox or Cubs?”  After a very short pause he said, “awww, I’m Southside all the way.  Besides, the Cubs’ll break your heart.”  He went back to his other conversation as though this were the most normal day of his life, which it may well be.