Tyke Taverner’s venerable editor dons a pink jacket (only because the mag is produced in colour, you understand) and tries whistling up some attention from the rabble in the room. Fails Obvious results there from a course in holding in the old stomach
Barman Phil whips ‘em into order by threatening to serve no more beer. That man knows how to be cruel
Peace arrives and Yvonne happily accepts the plague. See how her frock is even more pink? Beaten again. An instruction to make the plague on the large side proves most useful, and removes the need for a cummerbund. It is pleasing to know that, even on such an occasion, warm pies are still available at the end of the bar.
Suddenly, and with panache, as is the case with all prestidigitation, another one appears. This time it’s for running-up in the Pub of the Year competition. It should really read highly commended, don’t you think?

And, as expected, the sausages were sublime.

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