I don’t know about you, but my idea of a good day out doesn’t involve warm beer. It certainly doesn’t involve said beer being spilled down my back, by a group engaged in one of the loudest conversations ever perceived by the human ear. And yet, as soon as the weather begins to resemble anything other than a Lowry painting, this becomes the way of it. Off to the pub garden we all trundle.
By virtue of being easily irritable, I’ve resolved to limit my intake of beer garden days. Doctors do not recommend more than one a week (probably). I don’t recommend them at all (definitely). Instead, I’d much rather nurse a well-made drink in a temperature regulated, subterranean bar, where everyone is seated, and no one is pretending to be nice in order to steal a cigarette filter.
