What Is It About Brit Pubs?

That V is for Victory, folks!

Inside the Churchill Arms

Gimme that old time brewski....

Outside, the world goes merrily by...

They say English pubs are an institution.  I say, lock me up!

But, when it comes right down to it, what are the things one finds so appealing about sitting in a quaint pub, probably dating back several hundred years, quaffing a pint of delicious brew, ignoring the problems of the misinformed, and feeling manly in a world that has expunged leather and tobacco in favor of girly pursuits?

Is it the knaughtly gulls – I’m not sure of the English spelling – who like to sit in your lap and run their fingers through your wallet?  No.  It’s not that.  Money is only important because it keeps the beer flowing.  When you’ve got the comfort of a really good, nutty ale, women are superfluous.

Maybe it’s the feeling of power, knowing you can have another beer anytime you want one, or the knightly feeling of being powerful, when at home you’re a whimpering sycophant, tied like a slave to your wife’s impetuous whims.

By jove, I think I’ve got it!  You’re able to rise above yourself!  Be the man your mother wanted you to be. As you sit in quiet comfort, amid the soulful murmurs of other manly men, possibilities fold over you like waves of the sea, crashing from idea to idea.  Your body’s at rest, but your brain brandishes lightening strokes of daring do.  You find yourself pondering a new Rolls, a week at the seaside, remaking yourself into the forceful, demanding creature of legend.  I’ve no doubt James Bond was conceived at such a moment, that Hadrian had such a flash before he built his wall, that Humpty Dumpty could have picked himself up if he’d only been in an English pub.

The aura flows from you.  The bar maid knows when she catches your eye that she’s in the presence of a man of power and destiny.  She pulls the pump handle like a woman possessed and slides another pint your way.

To your companion you whisper, “I say, old bean, do you fancy another cup of cheer, or shall we retire to the fields and tame the peasantry?”  His noisy sip says it all.  He’s warm.  Comfortable.  At ease with himself.  Cares dissipate like yesterday’s mist.  Time for another round.

More photos follow....

Here's to it!

Steak and Ale Pie