The Sunday Pint

Essay written by Robin on Sunday 12, November 2006

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Overall Rating: 82.7%

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Sunday morning and I was just leaving the newsagent with a copy of the popular newspaper fondly known as "the screws of the World" to head for a Pint of bitter in the pub at the bottom of the hill. The main road was on a slight slope, and over the hill came a small cart being driven by, an old fellow with snow white hair and beard, with his feet resting on a low foot rail. He went past two greasy boys who were trying to start an old motorbike, which backfired with a fair imitation of a medieval cannon. The effect on the horse was as if you had jammed a lance up its backside, he went from a lazy trot to the finishing straight in the Rome Colisium in two strides,quickly catching up the traffic in front which was slowing for the traffic lights and finding the other side of the road clearer went flying down it with Father Xmas now standing on the footrest and leaning his full weight back on the reigns, and shouting two words continuosly at the horse, which appart from being an obscene description of the procreation of horses was quite impossible at full gallop without a mare. There was a shriek of rubber followed by a crunch, which I later found was a lorry buried up to the bar in the Pub on the corner,where I was heading. the horse having crossed the lights diagonally to head for the next hamlet on the correct side of the road I irrevelantly imagined the lorry driver standing at the bar with a pie and a pint phoning his boss to say he had just stopped for a bit of lunch, and would be a little later in.. .I remembered that this hamlet had a hump backed bridge over a river that would probably have Father Xmas airbourne and swimming, and obviously he knew the road as well, so he hauled on the right hand reign, which sent the horse into the expensive front gardens on the opposite side of the road, where it trashed four in quick succesion, to eventually stop with the horse taking a drink from a york stone edged fish pond, and Father Xmas leaning his head on his folded arms against the side of the cart, while the garden owner with much arm waving probably made suggestions as to where to drive the horse in future. The larger of the boys had got the motorbike running and with his friend clinging on the pillion went off out of the village in a blast of exhaust noise. Seeing the pub I was bound for looked like it was full of lorry and approaching police cars could be heard, I headed for a different pub know throughout the village as the three drunk mice, mainly because the hanging sign outside pictured three mice feeling their way home along a wall. I thought as I walked that the contents of my paper were going to seem mundane after the episode I had just seen

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