I’m just a typical British man having a pint in a traditional cockney pub on my way to work in the morning. A London Taxi is having a fight with a red phone box at one end of the bar. Through the window, I can see Big Ben, St Pauls, Nelson’s Column, Stonehenge, the White Cliffs of Dover, and Gordon Ramsey.
The pub was constructed in 1066 by Robin Hood and his merry men and has remained unchanged ever since, save for the introduction of a jar of pickled pigeons on the end of the bar that costs 50p and makes for a delightful light accompaniment to a pint. As was the tradition of the day, one of the merry men was encased alive in a glass compartment in the wall so his merriness would infuse the pub forever.
It is exceptionally crowded today with men in bowler hats eating a hearty breakfast of mince and onions who are too repressed to speak to someone else other than to apologise occasionally for looking like they might be about to speak to someone else.
