Bishop on the Bridge (Winchester)

Oliver Twist

It seems that it’s not just my good chum Dodger who’s prepared to pick a pocket or two during a recession. The Bishop on the Bridge in Winchester has a policy of ripping off its customers, so the assistant manager tells me.

Let me explain. Last Friday me and Dodge agreed to meet up for a pint after a hard day at work – me sweeping up for the Brownlows and Dodger relieving the good folk of Winchester of their Rolexes.

It’s always been a bit of a struggle to agree upon a venue. Dodger prefers frightfully rough places like the Wetherspoons; me, well I’d rather go for an ale in the gentile Wykeham Arms, next to the town’s famous old public school.

Inevitably we end up in a compromise. And you can’t beat Fullers for a good compromise pub.

For years The Bishop on the Bridge has been a fairly inoffensive place, by Winchester standards. Even its previous incarnation (when Dodger shamefully urinated in the corner upstairs) it was one of the best boozers in a town of ghastly slums.

We met outside and entered its formulaic main hall - typical Fullers fayre; tall ceilings, plenty of space and a character by-pass.

On approaching the bar I noticed a portly gentleman with fingers like potatoes and tightly cropped curly hair, not dissimilar to freeloading royal f**kwad Freddie Windsor. It was clear that never a drop of gruel had passed his lips in his youth; just a very, very many large pies.

Although English was his first language, it was clear that he’d yet to master it competently. I concluded that he must be an ex-estate agent, recently fallen upon hard times (yet later I learned he was the assistant manager).

Dodger made it to the bar first * he may be a criminal, but he always stands his round * and ordered our tipples, a pint of ale for him and a pint of Carling Extra Cold for me.

His pint was fine. Mine? Well it was a short measure by nearly an inch.

“Would you mind topping that up,” I asked meekly. Said amorphous fellow flicked the pump for a micro-second adding no more than a dribble of golden froth into my still woefully short pint.

Then he affixed me with a smirk and challenging stare.

Now I know a thing or two about the law - and particularly thievery. I’ve been on the right and wrong side of a magistrate (Bow Street to be precise).

So for pint number two, I ambled back to the bar hoping for better. But once again the knuckle-dragging troglodyte fixed me with a challenging stare.

“Pint of Ringwood and a pint of Carling please,” I ask politely.

Once again, a pint of Carling I did not get. It was nearly a quarter short.

“Please sir, I want some more,” I said

“What?” he replied

“Please sir, I want some …..”

“More?, ,,,,more?

.....That’s a full pint up to there.”

Whereupon, he pointed to an imaginary and arbitrary mark at least a centimetre from the brim of the Carling-monikered glass.

“That’s what we’ve been told to fill it to, by the manager” he says. 

I proceeded to explain the importance of the Weights and Measures law and the regulatory role I will encourage trading standards to perform come Monday morning.

* I also mused upon this despicable prawn’s bad attitude. *

“If that’s what the law supposes sir, then the law is an ass!” he didn’t reply. “If that be the eyes of the law sir, then the law is a bachelor!”

With that he walked away. And I was left concluding that a place named the Bishop can only be so because management clearly have a predelication to bash theirs while treating customers with utter contempt.

I left the last words to Dodger, who had joined me at the bar. He can be a little uncouth when he needs to be.

“You’re a villain to the end, me old china,” he shouted over the bar to the disappearing tit.

“Come back and fill his pint to the top - ya f***ing, fat c**t.”


Oliver Twist’s rating for the Rip Off on the Bridge – 0 / 10

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