A Pint At The Typhoid Arms

Bleurgh. I feel like crap. Cabin fever is getting to me in a big way. It's a Sunday afternoon and in an attempt to escape I've found myself stuck in the dingiest little pub England has ever seen, terrified of even looking at the menu in case an insidious blob of salmonella leaps off and makes babies on my face, amidst a sea of poms whose sole purpose in life, it seems, is to put the 'arse' into Arsenal Supporter.
Hazy action replays of premier league football are silently blaring from about 43 screens throughout the room (I counted them). If it's one thing the English are good at (and it probably really is only one, if you don't count making a damn good Peshwari Nan) it's ensuring that even if you are so sh*t-faced you couldn't tell the difference between the end pocket in a pool table and a urinal, you will still be able to see the game on at least 7 different screens, depending on at which angle your lager-filled neck has decided to hang your flushed and pimply little head. Despicable.
I'm only here because some idiot has left their nearby wireless connection un-password-protected and I'm milking his stupidity for all it's worth. That and the fact that a taxi to the nearest outpost of civilization will cost me £30, which, when the only movie playing there is Casino Royale, sounds about as appealing as riding the escalator in a central London tube station with my tongue sliding lovingly up and down the handrail whilst i fondle the members of the menagerie nestled in the resident Jamaican busker's dreads with my freshly manicured nails.
Oh I'm just such a bundle of joy today.