Edited on 2/2/17 to make -marginally- more sense.
George Orwell described “The Moon Under Water“, an ideal pub. The
ideal having now been fully achieved, thanks to JD Wetherspoon, may blessings be upon him, we now seek the perfect club.
Come with me to my afternoon wonderland in London’s prestigious Tower
Bridge Road area, in which you may wish to join the the lurid clientelle in
their perusal of back-numbers of The London Review of Books and in quoting Fernando Pessoa* at each other. Assisted by the Green Fairy, (or The Brown Arsehole), and forming a foreground to the migraneous lights of the fruit machine – whose jackpot is
exchangeable at the bar for Hay Festival vouchers – they may raise their red-ringed opiated eyes to the enormous Big-Brotherish portrait of Lucy Worsley above the inglenook, whose eyes do not merely follow you around the room, but actually seem to pursue.
Overcome betimes by all this gorgeousness and intellectual rigour, we slide bonelessly from our brown plastic faux-leather banquette to the welcoming, nay, grinning carpet, and as we adopt the classic yoga postion “The Collapsed Wanker”, Lucy appears to wink coquettishly.
Anyway that’s another day gone.
* “I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.”