A dangerous port in a storm for a traveler, going somewhere he doesn’t want to go with five hours to kill.

God bless the airport boozer – fuck the woeful High Grant’s philosophizing about finding the ‘essence of true love’ at the arrivals gate at Heathrow or some such tripe, the best in humanity can be found propping up the corner of the bar at The Bridge.

Akin to slaking your Friday-thirst with a swifty-six before getting the 2036 from Liverpool Street to Norwich, getting smashed at the airport is an art-form that needs celebrating.

A potted guide for the globe-trotting lush:

Know your surroundings:

Build up your thirst with a quick lap of the terminal, track down the pissers, scowl at the cunts frequenting the oyster bar, identify woman in Mulberry concession to leer at later. Most importantly rule-out the presence of superior boozer. A cardinal rule, if a ‘Spoons exists, you drink in the ‘Spoons – you’re in a different world here.

Do your admin:

Find out where your gate is, work out the last possible moment you can leave to reach there, in the face of a 13 hour economy flight, that extra pint could be the difference between passing out on taxi or hour after interminable hour staring at the stewardesses arse while watching a censored version of a film you didn’t want to see in the first place.

Identify your kind:

Is there anything worse, anywhere than fawning couples in pubs sharing a desert and a carafe of Jacobs Creek? The answer is yes – it’s couples in airport pubs. In the real world, they fuck-off to the theatre, you give them the shit-eye as they leave and we all move on with our lives. Sadly at the airport, time stands still – they never leave. No matter how much seating there may be elsewhere, you stand at the bar, back to the world. Only converse with other soloists, ideally non-verbally – why speak when a respectful nod of acknowledgement could suffice?

Unburden yourself from the concept of ‘value for money’

Yes 4 and a half quid a pint is a rip-off, but think of the alternative. You’re paying a premium to turn one of the most hateful experiences in the world into something bearable, and done well, very pleasant – grow-up, it’s a bargain at ten-times the price.

Make a nuisance of yourself with a ‘mid-session interval’

Mix it up a bit – especially when you have real time to burn. For smokers this is a particularly good way of walking off the ‘I want to kill everyone because these draconian cunts won’t provide a sealed room for me to fucking smoke in and I don’t have the balls to spark one up in the disabled bogs’ rage.

Some suggestions for the mid-session walkabout:

-          Feigning interest in expensive items in posh shops to impress the birds that work there

-          Fisting the contents of the Pork Farms chiller at Smiths down your face

-          Ill-advised gift-buying for loved-ones / person you are haplessly perusing*

-          Waxing lyrical with the man in duty-free about your love of forty year old single-malt before disappointing him immensely with the purchase of the biggest bottles of blended Bells and Beefeter you can carry

-          Hunting around the disabled bogs for somewhere to smoke

*Extra points for writing notes in books after at least four-pints and having the guts to hand it over without checking.

And finally, a few words on the Bridge – it’s a large room, there is a bar, you can exchange money for a big glass of booze. To their credit there is no wi-fi which weeds out the J2O, Apple Mac wankers – beyond that there is very little to say – exactly as it should be:

10 / 10

Chuggy Bear

Susie (45)

Susie

I am a nubian princess. A bit of a dreamer really I guess. I like the simple things in life; Weekend hikes; sedate mountain biking with close friends and moonlit ice-creams shared with a special someone.

Reason for incarceration - Felonious Assault; Carrying a Concealed Weapon. Identity Theft; Aggravated Animal Abuse In The First Degree; Armed Masturbation; Rape.

Roxanne (19)

Roxanne

I am a true romantic at heart. My idea of a perfect date would be the two of us sharing a picnic in a beautiful meadow on a mid-summers day. We hold each other and watch the sun go down, as the skylarks swoop in the under-croft.

Reason for incarceration – Assaulting a Police Officer; Drinking in a Quarry; Computer Fraud; Arson; Sex Offender -Failure to Register; Loitering With Intent; Rape.

Sheila (33)

Sheila

I am an avid reader and a keen follower of fashion. ‘Oscar Night’ is the calendar highlight of my year. Seeing those beautiful ladies in those gorgeous gowns just warms my heart. Glamour is not dead and is alive and well in the naughties ladies!

Reason for incarceration – Controlled Substances – Delivery/Manufacture of Ephedrine; Criminal Sexual Conduct – First Degree; Public Zoophilia; Domestic Violence – Third Offence; Rape.

Scarlett (66)

Scarlett

My favourite TV show ever is the Golden Girls. Proof to us all that life really does begin at 60. You go girls!

Reason for incarceration – Fleeing & Eluding – 1st through 4th Degree; Assault with a Dangerous Weapon; Prostitution; Indecent Exposure; Rape.

Monique (28)

Monique

I am a real home-maker at heart. To me, friends and family really are the most important things. Home is where the heart is after all!

Reason for incarceration – Home Invasion – First Degree; Home Invasion – Second Degree; Attempted Murder; Disorderly Person; Rape.

Katie (44)

Katie

I am a huge fan of Phil Collins.

Reason for incarceration – Indecent Exposure by a Sexually Delinquent Person; Larceny from a Motor Vehicle; Rape.

Verna (60)

Verna

It may sound boring I know, but I just love knitting. Knitting and cooking. I would like nothing better than to knit sweaters for that special man in my life, and to marvel at him wearing one, whilst he tucks in to a fresh home-cooked dinner that I have lovingly prepared for him. Could that man be you?!

Reason for incarceration -Urinating in Public; Leaving the Scene of an Accident; Resisting Arrest; False Report of a Bombing; Hijacking; Bombing; Rape.

You’ve got to be a bit of a tit not to love London. It’s the greatest city in the world. And Shepherds Market in plush Mayfair is one of its best parts - dark, a little sleazy and with some great restaurants (and that doesn’t mean pubs that ‘do food’).

And like the rest of London it’s a hotbed of multiculturalism. Again, a great thing. All the world in one city, as the last decent mayor of London famously said.

Now this writer is proud to be a bleedin’ heart liberal, but let’s get one thing straight. If you’re a

And don’t you dare get the hump and chuck the remote away when I tell you to turn it back fucking pronto.

Listen carefully Manuel. You’re not on fucking holiday. You’re working in London. And your job is to serve me fucking pints of lager while watching my team take a great victory over a lacklustre Spurs.

Prick.

Sputnikski

Boozing in France is a treat to be savoured. Anyone who’s spent an afternoon sipping Jupiler pression in a bar that doubles as a bookies will understand this simple truth.

Francophobes are idiots. That’s another simple truth. You can pretty much guarantee that anyone who ‘hates’ France and the French also believes that the moon landings were faked, that they should queue for fuel in the absence of a tanker strike and that using the cliche ‘it does exactly what it says on the tin’ makes them sound clever.

Perhaps the best bit about being on holiday in France, for the seasoned boozer at least, is the charming way that French telly reminds you of the important things in life. For before every ad break, those wonderful French TV bods present the word Pub on screen.

Yeah, I know it stands for publicite, but hey ho, let’s not split hairs. It’s a brilliant reminder to get your arse dahn the nearest Tabac.

Fizzy lifesaver

Gotta love the gentle questioning by pharmacists when handing over my fortnightly purchase of a packet of 32 soluble lifesavers. I’ve got my answers down to a tee.

Am I taking any other medication? No – a lie of course.

Don’t take it for more than three days – it’s addictive. Wouldn’t dream of it madam.

These two have come thick and fast for decades, but recently the lovely young things behind the desk have been supplementing this nonsense with a third angle.

Do not take it with alcohol they piously warn. Booze doesn’t work well with the Codeine, apparently. 

And my (absurd) standard response to this: No worries there, I’m teetotal.

This is wonderful sport. As they look into the tiny yellow pissholes above the big strawberry in the middle of my sweaty face, I’m almost willing them to respond: you must think I was born yesterday!

Sputnikski

More news of Wimbledon Village pub crimes. You’ll recall we brought you news of the disgusting policy of

SWERVE!

short measure pints being served at the dreadful Dog and Fox last week. Well, here’s another clip joint just around the corner.

This one is called the Rose and Crown. Like the Dog and Fox, it’s in a lovely location. And it should be a decent boozer. But two crimes were clearly documented by members of the Falling Down the Blog team when we visited recently.

Firstly, the barstaff. Ladies and gentlemen, if I’m buying a drink from you, please have the decency to tell me how much of my tenner I’m going to have left before you snatch the note from my hand.

But that’s just the starter. For the main, let’s just re-visit the quaint concept of the ‘bar snack’. Back in the day, the only snack you needed in a bar was peanuts and salt and vinegar crisps. Eating is cheating wasn’t a clever strapline then. It was a way of life.

But of course, times change. And like ‘family friendly’ sit-down-only terraces at QPR our bars have only been improved by the imposition of disgusting smelling food and kids aplenty.

So what of the humble bar snack aujourd hui?

Well here’s the Rose and Crown’s policy. Serve shitty main meals at massively inflated prices to families, but then ALSO serve bar snacks to drinking punters, but - and here’s the genius – at the price most pubs charge for a burger and chips. It’s a brilliant ruse.

Check this out. Incredibly, what you see here is a genuine menu. Note the pork pie for – wait for it – an eye-watering four quid. And chips for three twenty. But perhaps my favourite is soup and half – yes that’s right – half a sandwich for £5.25.

Nice one Rose and Crown. Another reason why any self-respecting soloist would give this part of the capital an almighty swerve.

Sputnikski

Every serious drinker – at some point in his life – will find himself in the unnerving position of consciously feeling the ‘thinking’ part of a hangover.  Just as someone of faith might seek ‘epiphany’, a drunkard should always be encouraged to embrace this curious time no matter how painful it may seem. He must will a state of hyper-awareness, respect and intrigue.

 The following advice need not apply to the lumpen masses of course. For most are spared all but the inconvenience of the ‘bastard behind the eyes’ and cross-channel-ferry gut.

The real sting of the beast comes not from these trifling, physical maladies, it’s the enemy within that matters – a terminal, mischievous darkness.

This determined force deviously deploys itself whilst the victim nurses his physical agonies. It lies in wait, poised to emerge when the fog clears and the waters calm. It knows no mercy, pouncing when one is wounded and on the retreat.

As it parasitically and greedily quaffs, you want to kill the jolly office-cunt offering tea. Why should he be spared?

Most significantly though, the darkness brings self-loathing… “that’s right turn ‘em against each other” you think, this brief sojourn to full insanity enraging you more. You want to cut the tongue out of your head for the bile that flowed so freely, allowing you to think you were the great prophet of the un–sayable. You weren’t.

And what about the visceral image of the one you love being ravaged by the man you’ll never be inspired by – a withering, disdain-masking look following a shameful half-hour spent hopelessly and limply stabbing away shortly before lights-out. You deserve to punch your own balls.

But wait! There is salvation from this lucid, semi-conscious nightmare, dear drinker.

The wonderful reality is, you achieved this. Chant it like a mantra to silence the maddening din:

Embrace the Darkness

“I’m very clever. Fuck two-pint Charlie and abstinent Annie! Fuck ‘em all. This crushing low is just reward for the giddy highs. I held court in a room of strangers, piss-stained and dribbling as I fumbled around the putrid floor for my last fiver; I was a great philosopher, lover and dancer, Plato and Charlie cunting Chaplin all in one, the last great wit and raconteur. I only nipped in for a swift pint and go on the fruity and look what happened to me: I can’t possibly be the cunt, you’re the cunt.”

Shut the yap and embrace enlightenment, you’re very, very clever indeed.

Chuggy Bear.

Wimbledon Village and Switzerland have a great deal in common. On the face of it, they should be great places to visit. The air is fresh, the scenery rather lovely and the buildings quaint. But just like almost everything Swiss, pubs in Wimbledon Village let themselves down with their enormous attitude problem.

Take the Dog and Fox, a dark, cavernous, family-friendly wreck of a pub, that Falling Down the Blog visited last week. A pub with a speciality in serving short-measure pints.

Look at that picture, below right. Believe it or not, this was the pint of Fosters they felt it acceptable to serve after I asked the surly barman politely to top it up.

Dog and Froth - a disgrace

And, let’s be clear about this Fosters-type pint glass people. It’s what’s known in the trade as a brim measure. In other words, it’s only a full-pint when it’s filled right to the very top, not when there’s a full inch of froth swirling around the head like a Mr Whippy without the flake.

Should we blame the Dog and Fox for this atrocity? Yes – and fucking then some!

But in the second decade of the 21^st Century, it seems the whole concept of a short measure pint is something we the punter must endure whether we like it or not (albeit never as disgracefully short as the despicable Dog cynically serves)

The reason? 

The fuckwads at Weights and Measures – AKA trading standards. Amazingly, trading standards officers acquiesced to the demands of the drinks’ industry and put their stamp on one of those oxymoronic consumer protection Codes of Practice, a Code which makes clear that a bit of froth can legitimately be served as part of your ‘pint’.

I only know this to be true because I wrote to Hampshire Trading Standards to complain about a fat-fuck landlord at a pub with a similar Dog and Fox attitude problem in Winchester (The Bishop on the Bridge) and their ‘officer’ told me they were powerless to do anything. Because of the Code

Think about that for a second.

We, the punter, can be ripped off with impunity because the bastards that are supposed to protect us have created a cosy Code of Practice in cahoots with the drinks industry. Then, no doubt, turned their attention to clamping down on Asian market stall-holders who sell counterfeit Nike trainers… Hmm, I suppose it’s a question of priorities; better protect the interests of big business, rather than the down-trodden piss-head.

And here’s another thing that you may not know. To its credit my local boozer delivers a pint right to the brim in the same type of Fosters glass as used in the Dog and Fox. When I showed barstaff my frothy pint image, they were horrified. But they also gave me a sneaky peak behind the bar. There, on the Fosters pump, is an image which instructs bar staff how to serve a perfect pint of filthy Fosters. A pint which, I kid you not, should include “8 mm of froth”.

One to Swerve - the Dog and Fox

Think about that one. It means about one pint in – say – 15 – will be a pint of air. Four quid for air.

Of course, if you’re drinking at the despicable Dog and Fox in Wimbledon Village, that figure will be much higher. One pint in five?

Maybe they should shut up shop and move to Geneva.

Sputnikski

A quick note on the ‘sensitive’ issue of letting oneself down when boozing. We’ve all done it after a few too many light ales. And we’ve all had to deal with the messy consequences…

So the question is, should all good soloists take a leaf out of NASA’s book? And kit themselves out with the latest in face(arse) saving technology?

Essential kit for soloists?

Stupid Guinness awards

More evidence – if any were needed - to dispel the ridiculous notion that there is such a thing as a ‘good’ pint of Guinness.

It comes from the latest nonsense at my local O’Neills – which is a total shitehole.

As you’ll note from the picture the Master Brewer – no less – has awarded this despicable little O’Neills a commemorative plaque, celebrating its status a pub that serves ‘a great pint of Guinness. It’s proudly hanging on the wall outside, by the piles of spit, chewing gum and fag butts.

Ladies and gentlemen; I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There is no such thing as a good or a bad pint of Guinness. It’s what makes it a safe drink when a boozer insists on serving the twin evils of Becks Vile or Fosters-filth as its lager options.

Guinness is not a bad thing to drink; don’t get me wrong. But, like eating a Big Mac or pigeon vomit, it’ll taste the same in Dublin, London or fucking Ulan Batol.