Thank you to Ionicus for this link, which, as a concerned parent, has shaken my confidence in Ribena Toothrot as a brand. All I can say is: "Good God, have they gone mad?" There's even pictures of a man loving his donkey, which has, I bet you any money, realistic orifices. No wonder he's smiling.
"Daddy, what's that man doing to that donkey?"
"He's riding him back to the stables."
"No he's not, daddy, he's giving it The Sex."
My, how quickly they grow up.
Pubs are great. Not only do you get to sit round tiny, sticky tables breathing in other peoples' cigarette smoke, but you also get to make yourself stupidly drunk, forget to go to college for six months and fail your A-Levels. Thanks, pubs, you totally rock!
What I really like about pubs, and you may call me a sad bastard here, are the names that many go by. I used to work in a pub by the name of the Old Devil, which sadly got its moniker because the landlord thought it better than "The New Inn". It's the unusual ones that grab me - like the Bag 'o Nails in Bristol, a corruption of the word "Bacchinals", which, you've got to agree, is rather spiffy.
The trouble these days is that many pubs names are now dreamed up by by committee of advertising executives, who use terms like "target social group" before coming up with something dreadfully americanised and ending with an 's. Hence the Jack of Both Sides in Reading (surely the hardest pub, ever) became the puntastic "Upin Arms" and there's no end of oh-so-hilarious xxxx and Firkins up and down the country.
Whatever happened to tradition, or is it just too boring? There's even a Moon Under Water on the Charing Cross Road, a nod to a fictional pub in a George Orwell essay, and I don't know if this is a good or bad thing. Full of art students and tourists.
There's nothing worse than returning to a much treasured pub to find it re-themed, re-branded and re-named, with all the beer replaced by generic piss, or worse still, "Sorry sir, we don't sell pints". "Irish" pubs where not even the Guinness is Irish any more, "fun" bars where you can't hear the eprson next to you speak, but dammit, you're having fun, and now, the Aussie pub, where there's a pipe connecting the toilets to the beer taps, and perpetual motion has been invented at last.
God, I need a drink. Wanker's Fun Pub, anyone?
Apparantly, there's some kind of football tournament going on somewhere in Portugal. After watching the match between Sweden and Bulgaria, guess which team I drew in the office sweep? Hint: Bulgaria lost 5-0 and played like they were trying out for the Special Olympics. Fuck my luck.