Michael (The Deer Hunter)

Albion (Winchester)

Maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I think I’d rather blow my own brains out than spend time in another Winchester pub. I know the town has a good reputation, but let me tell you a little secret; it’s well overrated.

In fact, England’s ancient capital has some of the lamest boozers in the south; reckon I got a warmer welcome in Hanoi!

I only came down in the first place ‘cause I got a whiff that Bambi was in town. His fluffy mate – the one with the twitchy feet - spilt the beans when I slipped him a pack of Waitrose carrots.

So I got the train down from London and, for the last week, it’s been full-on search and destroy mode; stalking the fields of Hampshire in the day, taking on Winchester’s boozers at night. Sort of ‘deer hunter in the morning; beer hunter by evening’. Ha ha ha

* site host D-Fens Foster’s comment – “that pun’s pathetic Vietnam boy. Now ‘chieu hoi’ your ass and get on with the review.” *

Mine is a story of obsession and boozing (or maybe obsessional boozing?). You remember that show Catch the Pigeon with Dick Dastardly and the flying rat with the horn and the postbag? Yeah well, that’s the relationship I have with Bambi.

(ooh, saying his name just made me come over a bit ‘didi mau’)

Like my dogged pursuit of a good lager, slotting that deer was never far from my mind. You have to think about one shot. One shot is what it's all about. A deer's gotta be taken with one shot.

I suppose hunting became a displacement activity. But for the deer fixation, my head would be ringing to the tune of Russian roulette, bouncing betties and limbs departing torsos.

Truth is though, my hunting days are over. This last week has been the pits and, believe me, when it comes to pits I’m an expert.

Even the prospect of a return to furious inner rages, clinical depression and suicidal tendencies strikes me as more appealing than another fruitless trek through the fields of Hampshire, propping up Winchester’s creaking hostelries in the evening.

The Albion is my final stop-off before the train home to London, an almost exact mirror image of what you get in here most nights; desperate, commuters fortifying themselves for another lonely night in a draughty flat, waiting for the walls to close slowly in.

But at least there is some good news for the Albion. I reckon it’s the best pub in Winchester. Only trouble is, that’s a bit like saying ‘it’s the nicest cubicle in the gents at Waterloo’; you’d still only step inside and take a seat if you were desperate.

I asked for a Rolling Rock. It’s the best beer around. But the Albion doesn’t have any. So I settled for a Carling top. Then I sat at the bar and waited for the clock to move on (handy for the station the Albion; no more than two minutes from pub to platform.)

I’m not even that bothered about slotting a cap in Bambi any more if I’m honest

* tonight, my subconscious may tell me otherwise. *

All I want to do is get the hell out of dodge.

A tour of drinking duty in Winchester; it’s enough to make a man want to rotate back to Da Nang.

Michael’s rating for The Albion – 5 / 10

Sputnikski

Bambi's been boozing in Winchester too. Does he like the place? nah, course not