Pub Review: The Rose
The Rose does not have a dance-floor which sees drunken twenty-year olds battle it out every Friday night for supremacy; nor does it have absurdly modern furniture or an endless cocktail menu on the wall. In fact, my favourite little pub, the pub which taught me what it is to drink like a man—learning the drinking culture from wise old men, that is—is a proper old fashioned pub: it hasn’t been changed since day one and as long as there are people walking this earth who appreciate the old-fashioned pub culture, it never will.
I like to chat to the old men you only find in such places. It’s as though they can only exist in that special plain of reality, isn’t it? You never see them walking about outside, do you? No. And if you do you might walk on by. But that’s why this protected species should be celebrated at every opportunity: the handlebar mustache is their weapon; wisdom-giving is their game.
Some people who don’t appreciate pubs might think you judge a pub only on its drinking area: well, you do not! You judge a pub on its many smaller details: for instance, the toilets in The Rose are cleaned with real pride by a real cleaning lady, not just anyone with a mop. And then there are the tables: coasters are always used to protect the varnish. And if anyone even thinks about placing their pint down on the wood–well–Let me just say that this will not be greeted kindly, and for very good reason! Those tables are hundreds of years old! What kind of a landlord would permit such heinous abuse?
And of course, we have to get to the beer. OK, I won’t lie: The Rose does not have the largest variety of beer of all
Good news on the house! After hours of going through online house ads, looking through endless home information packs, and being put on hold with a absurd number of estate agents everyone has agreed on a house. Move in date is the first of next month, and I am going to need deposits on tuesday from all the tenents. And before you ask Thomas, no you can’t borrow money
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