I was in Burton-on-Trent for a few days last week.
On Thursday night I went to the best pub in the world, a pub so good I’m not even going to say which one it is because I want to keep it for myself. Having said that, a group of Dungeons and Dragons players already go there, so that’s not going to work.
While I was nursing my pint of Bass (two wonderful Thornbridge beers were ‘coming soon’; they always are when I go in) I couldn’t help overhearing the sounds of role-playing coming from behind the frosted glass door to the snug. Soon they were winding up, and one guy – I guess he was the Dungeon Master – asked when they should meet again.
“Two weeks tonight?” someone suggested.
“What date is that?” asked another.
“February the fourteenth.”
“Does that work for everyone?”
The room agreed with a chorus of “Yep,” “No problem,” “I’m free”, “Works for me”.
Friday night, I was at a black tie brewing industry dinner (all part of the sinister conspiracy), and it was pretty late by the time we were sauntering through the snow back to our hotel, thinking we looked like the Rat Pack, when in fact we were more like the Fat Pack. It was well below freezing, about 3am, and we saw a girl in the street on her own. She looked about sixteen, and was dressed in a pair of fetish shoes, black fishnet tights, and a nurse’s uniform that almost reached her thighs, was open down the front, and was finished off with a little nurse’s hat.
We stopped to ask if she was OK, out on her own at that time, underdressed in the freezing cold. She looked us up and down, eyes wide, and said, “What the fuck are you all wearing fancy dress for?”