“So has it started raining, then?” the landlord asked.
“Only just. Pint of 6X, please.”
John Denver mocked the situation, crooning about sunshine on his shoulders and all the happiness it bestows.
The pub was huge, a right barn and packed with dining cattle to boot. A large party of people although party might be extreme: there was something funereal about the group and it might have been a wake and a big one at that. Not too surprising as most of the customers were at deaths door or, at a minimum, ringing for reservations (fat, old, fat, decrepit). The beer was perfect, by the way.