The Wheatsheaf and the Royal Oak don’t open till late (and you wonder why 40 pubs per week can’t cover their expenses) so I was left with the Old Bank. I have avoided it because it is sort of yuppified, the main dining bar and the real dining area upholstered by Ikea or something, but at least it was a bit pricey on top of that conceit.
I was greeted by a thin, effeminate waitron with his vaguely East-European-cum-Mediterranean accent (I got a strong Latka/Simka vibe off the man as he charged me £3.45 for a fucking Carling).
I had to wait for my change from a tenner (which wouldn’t have happened had I asked for a double bourbon and soda since, in this place, I would surely have been presented a watered Jack and Coke for £9.90) while a statuesque and commanding black goddess with quite the nicest ass I’ve seen in ages (outside the confines of the home, of course) fucked around with the tills. Finished with her ministrations, she stepped out into the main bar where a passing ancient pervert stuck a paw on her bum and apologised for his indiscretion as he slipped by.
SCOOPED! I hate when that happens. I don’t even know what the dormant period is before I can return to complete the action. Fucking british pensioners….