It’s a wonderful trope isn’t it?
You’re in unfamiliar territory and you go into an unfamiliar pub or bar, a bar that
doesn't look too terrible, but where nevertheless, terrible things happen.
Maybe it’s a cliché, but it still has legs.
I find myself thinking about American Werewolf in London.
Full disclosure, Griffin Dunne worked his little socks off trying to convince somebody in Hollywood to make a movie of my novel The Food Chain. With all too predictable results.
I also think about the Edward Woodward The Wicker Man
This is only to say that a couple of days ago I was in Harwich on the Essex coast, a place I scarcely know at all, and me and my pal Mel were looking for somewhere to have lunch and a sit down, and we found a pub called the Hanover Inn.
It looked all right, and the lady behind the bar was very friendly but some of the locals did give us ‘funny looks.’
But let’s face it, Mel and I are harmless looking men and we sipped our ale and ate the fish and chips we ordered and we survived unmolested.
The fish was great – the batter was described on the menu as ‘tempura’ which I believe is a very good thing, the chips were chunky, and the mushy peas were not especially mushy which strikes me as a real plus.
We had a good time.
No titties were twisted in the course of this blog post.
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