Spent last weekend in London with Dolores. And managed to trick her into a pub crawl of beautiful London pubs.
Didn't really drag her. Point in the right direction, really. Dolores likes pubs. Especially beautiful old ones. I know lots of those. Especially in London. That she's a big fan of cask beer also helps. Ordinary Bitter is her drink in London, seeing as cask Mild is as rare as rocking horse spit dahn saaf.
You don't have to tell me what a lucky twat I am. A lass that likes pubs and beer. And, even more incredibly, me as well. Three strikes. No, three strikes is a bad thing isn't it? Unless you're the bloke throwing the ball.
If you've got this far with the reading thing, you'll be wondering what the fuck all this has to do with the title of this post. I'm getting there. It's called building tension. Or boredom. Though my sentences are short enough for the most labelled kid - by that I mean children lumbered with some sort of bollocky pseudo-science diagnosis (while when I was I child you needed to drop your kecks, shit on the teacher's desk, and scream "I'm from Mablethorpe take me to your feeder" to be considered weird) - however thrabbed they might be to quite simply follow the thread (not Three Threads, which is total grax) even while luded out of their heads, connected to brain suckers (video games you might call them, but I've seen the look on their zombie faces while they gaze at the evil blue-light glow of a pissed away youth) while eating crisps.
Pub room names in action:
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