Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Monday, 3 June 2013
Britta has picked a great week to visit Bath. The sun is predicted to shine all week. I have only ever met one couple from the web-world world before, and they remain friends - albeit not ones I see that often. We also met in the same pub.
I am a bit nervous about the pub meeting today, though, because the place will probably fill up with all the locals who have spent the entire weekend at a nearby festival, and I am not sure what sort of a first impression they will make on our guest.
Usually, after a festival like Glastonbury finishes, all the old faces (and quite a lot of new ones) straggle into the establishment covered in mud and gurning like lunatics from 72 hours of partying on no sleep, but at least the mud will be minimal in this weather.
It can be quite disconcerting for a stranger who has no reason not to think that this is what the locals look like all the time, especially if that newcomer is more used to chic, Berlin wine-bars.
I was once paid to take an American couple on a tour of the Cotswolds, so that they could look at various styles of stonework for a house they were building back in the States.
When the day was over, they suggested we went for a drink in a traditional British pub, so I took them to the one I will meet Britta at today.
As we sat down with our drinks in a corner, the place began to fill up with casualties from the recently finished Glastonbury festival, and my guests looked around the place with nervous expressions on their faces, sipping on half pints of warm beer.
After a protracted silence, one of them said, "So Tom, do you have a problem with drugs in Bath?"