Wetherspoons, the pub chain, are a company of ambiguous attractions: but one thing they do have going for them is good taste in premises. The Old Picture House in Stafford is magnificent. I suppose it would be great if it were still a cinema but at least it is in use. And yes, I was in there at 11.25 in the morning, but hey, so were several other people.
Some pubs are just superb inside, and I discovered today that The Central in Liverpool, just round the corner from Lime Street station, is certainly among them. Keeping those mirrors free of grime must be a full-time job (although probably easier than it was when smoking was still allowed in pubs) and this is just a small part of the whole. But what I really like about this picture is the way that the reflection of the woman on the screen looks like she has turned into the bride at some major Indian wedding.
Have we only just made it to October? Blimey.
A Friday night out, in the kind of lighting which makes taking photos with my point-and-click gear an activity dependent mostly on luck. Great action shots of people dancing don’t really emerge. But this photo of Clare getting the first beers of the evening is at least notable for this being the point when she overtakes Joe as the most-often featured person on here — a status that, all things considered, she will almost certainly now retain.
Christmas decorations appearing in early November, I have learned to live with. But Halloween ones appearing more than six weeks before the fact? Ah, goddamit. Society is crumbling. (This may, of course, not be a specific Halloween reference but let me grumble.)
I am late posting and after Thursday’s and Friday’s exertions, this stopover in the City Arms after work seems like a while ago. It’s best pub I’ve found in Manchester city centre though — so I know that what was being served here was a fine pint.
Gosh, this year of my life starts with two consecutive nights out. But then again it is a holiday weekend. We are the last ones out behind the Railway, in fact. This picture appeals purely because of the lights.
He was inside Nightjar. I was outside, enjoying the first beer of the weekend (and also wondering whether it was about to rain). I didn’t mean to get myself into the shot as a reflection, but once I saw that I had, I decided it might be saying something about me seeing into the future…. if you get the point.
It did rain, by the way. But only a little.
A tasty pasta dish, being prepared by the good chefs of the Eagle pub on Farringdon Road, London. She’s allowed one bit of pasta to escape, but I’ll let that pass.
After eleven different places in eleven days it’s time to spend some time at home again. I’m still not back to work though: that can wait another week or so. Stan generally agrees with this approach to life, I feel.
Being 42 