A quick glance told me there was, as usual, nothing on offer likely to tempt me. So I headed for the exit, stopping only to snap a photo of the bar. And that’s where my problems began. A woman rushed up to me, completely spoiling my photo btw (hence this official one of the exterior) and demanded to know why I was taking photos. When I enquired what it had to do with her, she said she worked there. I explained it was for the web and was informed I should ask permission first. I replied I didn’t need permission-I wasn’t photographing children or even individuals, and that last time I checked it was still, mainly, a free country.
By now some apron-wearing jobsworth had joined in, enquiring if I was causing trouble. I explained once again, only to be told that I should ask permission and explain what it’s for. The reason I don’t ask permission says I, is because I won’t get it. After all, it’s about to illustrate a piece on how bad the pub is. Mr Apron then says hand the phone over or we will call the police. I think it was at this point I told him to go pleasure himself where the Fosters doesn’t shine. I was quite looking forward to a chat with the Old Bill by now, but Miss Frostyknickers intervened to say it would be better if I just left. Which is what I did. But not before pointing out that was exactly what I was intending to do some ten minutes earlier. I only wish now I had thought to snap both of them. Ah well, maybe next time.
I should point out that this incident took place BEFORE any alcohol was ingested!