>> the minute i cross the river, i can feel grimness coming upon me
>And they all talk funny.  North of the river they're all called Hamish
>and Angus, and they wear flat caps and have whippets.

Eeeh, lad, 'appen tha's f'gottent' pigeon-fancying[1] and breakfasts
consisting entirely of clotted blood wrapped up in guts.

Mind you, as I've said elsewhere, the beer's *dead* cheap, and
properly-made. Which is why I tend to drink fizzy lager in That, because
I've yet to find a rub-a-dub that serves a decent pint of Real Ale[0]. Like
Old Eli or Enoch's Hammer from the Sair Inn[2].

[0]Of course there's no ulterior motive for me wanting to come to That.pm
meetings ...
[1] Well done, Rob.
[2] http://www.geocities.com/motorcity/6006/sair.htm

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