Summary
The next time I look up, the chap at the bar is draining the dregs of his glass. Then he looks at the empty sleever and hurls it deliberately at the row of optics behind the bar. Then he turns and leaves. On his way out he pauses to tell me that until about an hour ago he was the chef. 'But that alcoholic arsehole, ' he says, jerking his thumb at the landlord, 'won't be happy till he's got rid of everyone.
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Extract
Not in the Mood
I ask the new landlord of the Bald Hind, who's manning the bar on his own tonight, for a pint of Stella. He's in his mid-fifties and wearing a clean, ironed skyblue shirt unbuttoned to the sternum. For a second or two he ...
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