The Turks Head, Alcester

"the bland leading the bland"

they say, whoever 'they' are, that life begins at forty. personally i've never heard anyone say that, which is a good thing as i'd avocate an instant on-the-spot maiming for anyone that ever did. but even so, i find myself peering down the through last dreggs of my pint towards my own imminent rebirth, one which suggests the next forty years will be a lot less pleasant than the first. and the beer's not bad to fair. its not great either. i mean, it wont have the doyens of camra giving a lickety splat over the cellarmanship anytime soon, but it'll do. but thats just it, as a metaphor for life goes; "it'll do" just isn't good enough. this, i soberly reflect as the turk's youthfull patron's, a frisson of stylish excess and extravagence, or an even shitter than usual episode of hollyoaks (how ever you choose to call it) parade on by without so much as a glance askance in my direction. i may as well not be here, infact, why am i here? referring to the pub's own blurb i discover that i'm drinking in a "privately owned freehouse over-flowing with character". well, if by 'character' they mean (and clearly they don't, but a link's a link, hey...) the lasses infront of me who, judgeing from their own vapid expressions, evidently did well to remember to tie the laces of their lily-allen-esque, oversized, bright white trainers, but then did somewhat less well to accompany that with any meaningful item of clothing elsewhere at all. i mean, don't get me wrong, at my age i'll take what i can get, and if thats a pair of pert young backsides protuding from shimmering lycra half a yard in front of me, then so be it. or maybe its their accompanying boyfriend's - wannabe london hipsters to a man - a T4 travesty dressed ludicrously as far as i can see in low crotched pants with elasticated ankles, there presumeably to catch the shit when it inevitabley gets kicked out of them should they so much as cast a sideways glance at the hardcases outside the swan further up the road. maybe its just me, maybe i'm too old, perhaps i'm not meant to understand the banalities of a youth i so clearly envy - but if by dressing differently you all look the same then surely that amounts to little more than the bland leading the bland down this years latest high street, H&M, fashion dead end.

But anyway, all this aside, time's ticking on - last orders at the bar of life (or any other grinding last chance saloon metaphor you care to mention) - you staying for another mate? nah, its way past my bedtime...oh bollocks to it, one for the road, here's to the next forty and all that shite.

for: alcester's third, or maybe even second best pub on the high street

against: if i haven't already meantioned alcester's oh so 'street' wannabe london hipster's, then i have now

8 Sep 2012 16:44

The Turks Head, Alcester

"the bland leading the bland"

they say, whoever 'they' are, that life begins at forty. personally i've never heard anyone say that, which is a good thing as i'd avocate an instant on-the-spot maiming for anyone that ever did. but even so, i find myself peering down the through last dreggs of my pint towards my own imminent rebirth, one which suggests the next forty years will be a lot less pleasant than the first. and the beer's not bad to fair. its not great either. i mean, it wont have the doyens of camra giving a lickety splat over the cellarmanship anytime soon, but it'll do. but thats just it, as a metaphor for life goes; "it'll do" just isn't good enough. this, i soberly reflect as the turk's youthfull patron's, a frisson of stylish excess and extravagence, or an even shitter than usual episode of hollyoaks (how ever you choose to call it) parade on by without so much as a glance askance in my direction. i may as well not be here, infact, why am i here? referring to the pub's own blurb i discover that i'm drinking in a "privately owned freehouse over-flowing with character". well, if by 'character' they mean (and clearly they don't, but a link's a link, hey...) the lasses infront of me who, judgeing from their own vapid expressions, evidently did well to remember to tie the laces of their lily-allen-esque, oversized, bright white trainers, but then did somewhat less well to accompany that with any meaningful item of clothing elsewhere at all. i mean, don't get me wrong, at my age i'll take what i can get, and if thats a pair of pert young backsides protuding from shimmering lycra half a yard in front of me, then so be it. or maybe its their accompanying boyfriend's - wannabe london hipsters to a man - a T4 travesty dressed ludicrously as far as i can see in low crotched pants with elasticated ankles, there presumeably to catch the shit when it inevitabley gets kicked out of them should they so much as cast a sideways glance at the smokers outside the swan further up the road. maybe its just me, maybe i'm too old, perhaps i'm not meant to understand the banalities of a youth i so clearly envy - but if by dressing differently you all look the same then surely that amounts to little more than the bland leading the bland down this years latest high street, H&M, fashion dead end.

But anyway, all this aside, time's ticking on - last orders at the bar of life (or any other grinding last chance saloon metaphor you care to mention) - you staying for another mate? nah, its way past my bedtime...oh bollocks to it, one for the road, here's to the next forty and all that shite.

for: alcester's third, or maybe even second best pub on the high street

against: if i haven't already meantioned alcester's oh so 'street' wannabe london hipster's, then i have now

8 Sep 2012 16:14

The Turks Head, Alcester

"the bland leading the bland"

they say, whoever 'they' are, that life begins at forty. personally i've never heard anyone say that, which is a good thing as i'd avocate an instant on-the-spot maiming for anyone that ever did. but even so, i find myself peering down the through last dreggs of my pint towards my own imminent rebirth, one which suggests the next forty years will be a lot less pleasant than the first. and the beer's not bad to fair. its not great either. i mean, it wont have the doyens of camra giving a lickety splat over the cellarmanship anytime soon, but it'll do. but thats just it, as a metaphor for life goes; "it'll do" just isn't good enough. this, i soberly reflect as the turk's youthfull patron's, a frisson of stylish excess and extravagence, or an even shitter than usual episode of hollyoaks (how ever your choose to call it) parade on by without so much as a glance askance in my direction. i may as well not be here, infact, why am i here? referring to the pub's own blurb i discover that i'm drinking in a "privately owned freehouse over-flowing with character". well, if by 'character' they mean (and clearly they don't, but a link's a link, hey...) the lasses infront of me who, judgeing from their own vapid expressions, evidently did well to remember to tie the laces of their lily-allen-esque, oversized, bright white trainers, but then did somewhat less well to accompany that with any meaningful item clothing elsewhere at all. i mean, don't get me wrong, at my age i'll take what i can get, and if thats a pair of pert young backsides protuding from shimmering lycra half a yard in front of me, then so be it. or maybe its their accompanying boyfriend's - wannabe london hipsters to a man - a T4 travesty dressed ludicrously as far as i can see in low crotched pants with elasticated ankles, there presumeably to catch the shit when it inevitabley gets kicked out of them should they so much as cast a sideways glance at the smokers outside the swan further up the road. maybe its just me, maybe i'm too old, perhaps i'm not meant to understand the banalities of a youth i so clearly envy - but if by dressing differently you all look the same then surely that amounts to little more than the bland leading the bland down this years latest high street, H&M, fashion dead end.

But anyway, all this aside, time's ticking on - last orders at the bar of life (or any other grinding last chance saloon metaphor you care to mention) - you staying for another mate? nah, its way past my bedtime...oh bollocks to it, one for the road, here's to the next forty and all that shite.

for: alcester's third, or maybe even second best pub on the high street

against: if i haven't already meantioned alcester's oh so 'street' wannabe london hipster's, then i have now

8 Sep 2012 16:11