Pugs Bar (Barbados)

Phileas Fogg (Around the World in 80 Days)

Flushed with success following my record-breaking trans-global adventure, I resolved to embark on a new challenge just as soon as I had recovered my strength.

My aim I surmised would be a repeat of my 80-day voyage with one thirst-quenching difference. This time I would complement my new-found passion for travel with a daily dose of extreme drinking. Imbibing while travelling, I decided, would naturally christen my endeavour: around the world on 80 bastard hangovers.

After weeks of meticulous planning I was ready to depart.

My adventure began with an early morning fuel-stop at a majestic Wetherspoons in Gatwick Aerodrome. Three Fosters-tops would see me to Barbados, my first stop, I reasoned. Good spirits and I would indeed make enthusiastic travelling companions!

When called to board my carriage however, I sensed a hiccup. Was I set for a fall at the first hurdle?

The problem, you see, were the aviators conveying me to my first destination. By the livery of the craft it appeared to cater exclusively for those yet to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. Virgin Airlines no less.

Initially I’ll admit, I had not a clue how to proceed. Then quietly and Englishly, I simply resolved to keep those curious balloon fumblings with Passepartout and Monique firmly under wraps.

With tight lips, I safely boarded and immediately surveyed my surroundings. Oh my, what delight. One might have assumed those cabin doors led straight to the Caribbean itself, such was the collection of brightly coloured football shirts adorning my fellow travellers. T’was a glorious sight for which I felt rightly proud to be an Englishman.

Eight hours later we landed and I extricated my knees from my ears, forcing some blood back below my waist. I made haste to leave the craft and airport environs and in doing so inadvertently found myself on the receiving end of a most unfortunate and unpleasant incident.

A miscommunication was my downfall, I have no doubt. In hindsight I realise a less well-educated man might easily mistake ‘circumnavigation’ for a term of abuse. At the time though my protestations to the customs clerk were in vain and I have to report the most vile (and I’d imagine illegal) intrusion of my bodily personage ensued.

You will sympathise I am sure with my reaction upon spying Pugs Bar after I finally cleared those obscene screens. To my (still-watering) eyes that ramshackle bar resembled the wettest oasis in the most barren of deserts.

I headed there at speed, my mission to get horribly, horribly drunk taking on a new-found urgency.

But plain sailing this trip was not to be. My next challenge; a quibble over means of payment. Sterling not accepted in Barbados? Preposterous!

“Madam,” I pleaded wearily to the proprietor, “I have just been invaded in the most appalling manner by one of your compatriots. Her majesty and the Bank of England demand you honour my bonds. Now please, avail me of your finest stag lager, with no further nonsense.”

And mark this dear friend, although the empire may be but a glorious memory, madam Pug acknowledged the authority of an English gentleman in peril and agreed to barter. Two crisp 50s secured ‘up to 10’ bottles of beer. A fair compromise, I thought.

Elsewhere in the bar my trade led to some ungainly cackling by the darker-skinned patrons. But I ignored their levity and prepared for a serious solo session, my burdened day lightening by the bottle.

Eight beers (and a complimentary rum or two) later and I’m embarrassed to say I succumbed to slumber on one of the airy tables. An act for which I am not at all proud, albeit it did save on a hotel bed.

Thus began a daily cycle I found nigh-on impossible to break. Each morning I’d pull my swede from the table and prepare to leave. I would set off to thank my hosts, then depart on the second leg of my journey.

Yet morning after morning, beer bends and unfamiliar rum paranoia conspired to play havoc with my sense of reason. I felt compelled to partake of madam Pug’s continued hospitality to ‘clear my head’. First beer on the house, then another ten for a round 100.

Seventy nine days into my adventure it became clear I would only half complete the challenge. Circumnavigation was clearly out of the question, and yet the hangovers were daily and invasive.

Ha ha ha, I suppose that is the way of us toff adventurers. We get all the (international) breaks and everything we set out to achieve ends up half-arsed.

Talking of arses, I suppose the less charitable reader might be thinking; that Fogg character, what a joke, didn’t make it past the first bar. No resolve, no fibre no character. A real adventurer would have acted like the custom’s clerk; set himself a difficult exploratory mission, then pulled his finger out.

Phileas Fogg’s rating for Pugs Bar – 80 / 10

Sputnikski

• View by pub
• View by reviewer
• View by place

• Natural Selection,..

  “,….. Why didn’t they live to be 100?Huh? Well, they woz running round all day, hunting mammoths, eating berries,..rumping their little hearts out. No boozing or smoking. They must have been fit as fiddles. Yer Neanderthalls……….I’ll tell you why, it’s … Continue reading →