Finish

The affable S and I ventured into a deserted and rather forlorn Merrie Gloucester last evening for a pint or two. The unpretentious and surprisingly welcoming Imperial hosted us first. They serve a decent Guinness there. Like a pair of eager urchins scampering off to the tennis courts during Wimbledon fortnight, we borrowed a set of arrows from behind the bar to impishly try and replicate the form currently being shown by our heroes contesting the World Championships at London’s Alexandra Palace. A best-o’-three 301 battle ensued, your scribe prevailing by two legs to one, pouncing twice on the fabled double ten area to claim the spoils. I trust that S will not mind me reporting that on each occasion he was left needing double one, a telling indictment of the quality of sport proffered to the grizzled professional drinkers lining the Imperial’s bar who could occasionally be spotted eyeing our progress – or lack of it – with mild disdain. For the record, the evening featured a visit to the doughty Fountain Inn and climaxed with a trip to Dick Whittington’s. In our quest to discover newer places to drink in, we had intended to visit Westgate Street’s Pig Inn The City but it was unfortunately closed because of a family wedding. I wish the bride and groom well, whoe'er they may be.