Post by yenilira on Nov 25, 2011 1:20:59 GMT 1
These are George Orwell's requirements for his fantasy pub 'The Moon Under Water':-
The architecture and fittings must be Victorian.
Can't be done with all those art-deco pubs. No atmosphere in them.
What's wrong with a blazing log fire in the winter?
Games, such as darts, are only played in the public part of the bar.
Too damn right, but you've forgotten 'pool' - then again, I don't think he played that.
The pub is quiet enough to talk – no radio or piano.
Jukebox, even. I go out for a quiet pint – not to end up in the ENT at the Vic., ffs.
The barmaids know most of their customers by name. They call everyone "dear," irrespective of age or sex.
In this pc age, it would be ' barstaff' –
don't fancy a barman calling you 'dearie', do you?.
It sells tobacco and cigarettes, aspirins and stamps, and lets you use the phone.
Who's going to sit in a pub and write a letter at ten at night? C'mon.
Some still do sell them, though, so that's a bit academic, really.
p.s. George forgot Cigars, didn't he?
There is a snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels, cheese and pickles.
Just have to make do with crisps and peanuts now, won't yer, love?
Upstairs, six days a week, you can get a good, solid lunch for about three shillings.
"Three Shillings"? - how old are you, duckie?"
Downstairs you can get the same, but for twenty/thirty times that now, and seven days out of seven.
They sell a creamy sort of draught stout and it goes better in a pewter pot.
I've still got mine, and it's glass-bottomed as well!
Anyway, who wants 'cream' on their beer?
I leave that for my puddings.
They never serve a pint of beer in a handleless glass.
I've never dropped a pint yet thru the glass slipping from my fingers with them handles.
Today....? Got the sawdust handy, barman?
You go through a narrow passage and find yourself in a fairly large garden.
I wouldn't call it a garden, an opium den more like, though there is a nice beer garden next door.
Ah, well, we can but dream, can't we?
YL.
The architecture and fittings must be Victorian.
Can't be done with all those art-deco pubs. No atmosphere in them.
What's wrong with a blazing log fire in the winter?
Games, such as darts, are only played in the public part of the bar.
Too damn right, but you've forgotten 'pool' - then again, I don't think he played that.
The pub is quiet enough to talk – no radio or piano.
Jukebox, even. I go out for a quiet pint – not to end up in the ENT at the Vic., ffs.
The barmaids know most of their customers by name. They call everyone "dear," irrespective of age or sex.
In this pc age, it would be ' barstaff' –
don't fancy a barman calling you 'dearie', do you?.
It sells tobacco and cigarettes, aspirins and stamps, and lets you use the phone.
Who's going to sit in a pub and write a letter at ten at night? C'mon.
Some still do sell them, though, so that's a bit academic, really.
p.s. George forgot Cigars, didn't he?
There is a snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches, mussels, cheese and pickles.
Just have to make do with crisps and peanuts now, won't yer, love?
Upstairs, six days a week, you can get a good, solid lunch for about three shillings.
"Three Shillings"? - how old are you, duckie?"
Downstairs you can get the same, but for twenty/thirty times that now, and seven days out of seven.
They sell a creamy sort of draught stout and it goes better in a pewter pot.
I've still got mine, and it's glass-bottomed as well!
Anyway, who wants 'cream' on their beer?
I leave that for my puddings.
They never serve a pint of beer in a handleless glass.
I've never dropped a pint yet thru the glass slipping from my fingers with them handles.
Today....? Got the sawdust handy, barman?
You go through a narrow passage and find yourself in a fairly large garden.
I wouldn't call it a garden, an opium den more like, though there is a nice beer garden next door.
Ah, well, we can but dream, can't we?
YL.