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I suspect it would be a back-alley Soho pub, hard to come across so mostly occupied by regulars, but with the occasional stranger wandering in lost and perhaps staying. (The door policy has changed recently though, it's become "members by invitation only".)
It's got bookshelves with real books and a very peculiar jukebox. Alcohol not mandatory, but you'd better be able to cope with the thick fug of cigarette smoke.
Over on that table by the fag machine we have a bunch of smelly dog-on-string types talking about Mayday. There's some people who look suspiciously like students and academics having an argument about communication theory by the window, drinking pints of the cheapest bitter. A big crowd by the bar are talking absolute bollocks about anything that comes into their heads. There's a little door somewhere marked "Magick" that smells like patchouli oil and cheese and onion crisps. And there are some people who wander back and forward between tables and the bar, chatting about whatever everyone else is.
In good pub argument style, nobody seems to listen to what anyone else is saying, except occasionally when they nod wisely and respond with a deep and meaningful rephrasing of what they said previously. There's still enough wit and intelligence in people's pissed-up monologues and obscure quotes, though, to keep people's interest, even if they find they just can't manage to butt into the conversation.
Every now and then the landlord gives it the full Changing Rooms treatment, when it looks like it's becoming structurally unsound. Right now it's looking quite spiffy if a little spartan, but I'm sure the regulars will put fag burns in the seats and make the carpet all sticky in no time.
He should fix the condom machine though. It's only dispensing the curry-flavour ones. |
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