This evening I went with Mr. Watkins to The George pub again. Prior to meeting him at the train station in town I had half an hour to kill so wandered up and down the high street.

It must be a full moon tonight as all the weirdos were out in Bath. First of all a load of freaks were staggering up and down shouting out random obscenities, it was like a whole group of drugged up Petes from Big Brother (you know, the one who randomly shouts out “wanker!”). I carefully avoided them. Had I been cornered I am sure they would have raped and then killed me. It must have been a day out at the loony asylum.

After safely getting to the station there were yet more nutters. A gang of half naked hooligans staggering about the place, spilling lager, pissing everywhere and approaching random people asking them for money, all of whom tried to back off awkwardly. I managed to avoid them too, I didn’t want to give them any money to fuel their drinks binge. What do they think I am? A walking dole office?

Watkins turned up shortly after and we headed for the station’s taxi rank. Then I saw the driver in the cab… I couldn’t believe it. It was the same one from last week – the old, dirty Uncle Albert geezer with the foul mouth and erratic driving. I wanted to avoid him and turn back, taking my chances with the pissheads but it was too late, Greengrass had spotted us and we had to climb aboard.

The taxi driver I simply cannot avoid

Anyway, to cut a long story short we made it to the pub. Like last week it was very busy and we had to wait a long time for our food to arrive. It was worth it. I had a chicken, asparagus and crème sauce dish, it was very nice. Watkins had the common mans meal of sausage and mash (yes, the dish I had last week).

The only other event to be noted from the evening is that I owe Mr. Watkins one prank. He tricked and caused me a great deal of embarrassment this evening…

It was my round, while at the bar ordering drinks I asked for a Carling. The Aussie barmaid assured me that the pub did not sell this type of beer. I was a little confused at this point as I was sure I had been drinking Carling for the last half hour (out of a Carling glass!) – Watkins had bought it for me. When I pointed this out to the barmaid I was told they just use the branded glasses and certainly don’t sell my favoured lager. Watkins had tricked me! He had tricked my mouth, taste buds and brain that Fosters was actually Carling! I fell for it and humiliated myself at the bar. I owe you Mr. Watkins. I will get you.

It may look like Carling, it may taste like Carling, but it is not Carling

The evening ended and Watkins and I caught a taxi home. No escape measures had to be undertaken this time as Mr. White was not there. The taxi had a faint smell of detergent and vomit which lead to thoughts of what ghastly event had taken place in my seat the previous evening. No doubt somebody received a £100 fine for soiling. Maybe it was Mr. White?