“MOTHERFUCKER!”
Again!
Fuck this cottage! Fuck its stupid tiny doorways! Fuck its solid and highly longevous building structure! Fuck the idyllic, picturesque hamlet of fucking Mudford-upon-Hooke! Fuck staying here for the rest of the rugby season! Fuck emergency signings!
And fuck, fuck, fuck Bath fucking Centurions!
“Alexa!” I yell, furiously massaging my forehead. “Order me a roll of caution tape and . . . a tonne of bubblewrap.”
The Echo whirs into life. A blue ring of light chases itself around the base. “I found the following items in your previous orders,” Alexa begins. “Hazard tape. Fifty millimetres by thirty metres. High visibility. Black and yellow diagonal stripes. Five pounds, ninety-nine pence. And jumbo roll of bubblewrap. Five hundred millimetres by one hundred and twenty-five metres. For shipping or storage. Fourteen pounds and ninety-nine pence. Would you like me to place the order?”
“Yes. Fuck yes.” I blink back the stars and jog across the road.
Chatter and laughter greet me outside the pub entrance, but it dies as soon as I push the door open, like a pair of noise cancelling headphones. The sudden silence seems heavy. Oppressive.
Faces turn to me. Someone whispers, “Well, fuck me sideways, it’s actually him.”
Someone else gives a low whistle.
Someone else says, “I thought you were taking the piss, Daze.”
At this, Daisy looks up from her position behind the bar. Her ponytail swishes over her shoulder, and what I can only describe as a shit-eating grin splits her features in two. She shoots a look behind her to an open door, which no doubt houses the pub’s kitchen. Then she pats the bar top. “Take a seat, M. Jones.”
I meander through the tables, noticing that after Daisy I’m easily the youngest person in the pub. Probably the entire hamlet if the demographics here are anything to go by. Have I inadvertently moved into a retirement village?
The pub itself is the archetypal British inn. White limewashed stone walls, flagstone floor with the occasional maroon rug scattered here and there, black painted wooden beams and struts are decorated with random horse brasses. Fairy lights blink overhead, and I guess it’s kind of pretty.
A supermassive flatscreen TV is fixed to the wall next to the bar, but switched off. Instead, The Doors play quietly through a speaker system. A disproportionately large fireplace—I could have climbed inside—sits against the other wall, and even though it’s March and getting pretty warm out, the embers of a nearly spent fire crackle gracefully in the grate.
Behind the bar, shiny silver taps stand proudly, each bearing a plate with a punny or ironic or sometimes just plain ridiculous name. They make me question whether the folks who run these indie breweries are ever sober.
The Ball Smasher.
Old Boy’s Tackle.
Loosehead’s Load.
Ruckin’ ’Ell.
I sense a theme. Rugby or dicks. Or perhaps both. Either is cool with me. I take a seat at the bar, ignore the whispers that are gradually building, and Daisy places a menu in front of me. An A4 chalkboard with a bunch of handwritten meals, all so stereotypically “British pub” you’d be forgiven for assuming this was the England section of Epcot. The menu itself looks as though an American did a quick Google search on what Brits eat and slapped it down with a chalk pen.
“Drink?” she asks me, her smirk from earlier still firmly fixed in place.
“Guinness.”
“Don’t fancy a refreshing pint of Hooker’s Dribble?”
A couple of people behind me fail to hide their snorts. I suck my teeth and stare at the barmaid.
“Guinness it is. I’m gonna start a tab for you. You can pay up at the end of the month.” After a few moments, she places a perfect pint of black stout on the bar mat in front of me. The exact right amount of head. The girl has obviously been doing this for some time. “What d’you wanna eat, then?”
“Fish ’n’ chips?”
“We’re out,” she says, no trace of an apology.
“Pie, then.”
Daisy leans over and shouts through the open kitchen door. “Dad, have we got any pies?”
