ALE Spring 2001 No. 301

"About this 'ere parrot..."

The Kingston Arms,
Cambridge.
6th March 2001

Dear Sirs,

I wish to complain about your pub. I am not an unreasonable person, and am not usually given to petty complaints, but I feel honour bound to speak out as I am sure that there are others who would agree with me.

Firstly, your beer: I note that you have a wholly unreasonable ten handpumps, each dispensing a different type of ale. On my first visit to your establishment, after wasting valuable drinking time making up my mind which ale to start with, I was tormented with the thought that I might have made a bad decision and was thus forced to sample all ten pumps. My wife killed me when I got home, drunk as a skunk. Never mind I thought, at least next time I will know what I like best.

However, upon my next visit some irresponsible maniac had changed the beers on half the pumps. My wife murdered me in cold blood when I got home, wellied again. And another thing, your IPA is a bit too strong. Five pints of your usual run of the mill IPA never hurt anybody of a lunchtime, but your IPA - my wife ripped my lungs out with a length of rusty barbed wire when I arrived home, having completely forgotten to return to work.

Secondly, the food: what are you? A pub or a restaurant? The menu not only looks good, it is good. Very good. I have put on three stone in weight, and my wife has threatened to leave me if I get any fatter. I have to cycle two miles to get here, but this makes little difference as I eat and drink so much.

And finally the staff: they are actually friendly. Polite also. The atmosphere is so pleasant - they sell Havana cigars. Where have our traditional pub values gone I ask? Where are the cheap warm euro-fizz lagers, the frozen Yorkshire puddings filled with instant gravy mix and dog food, the chips-with-everything mentality, the rude spotty staff, the sour-tasting keg beer, the loud jukebox, the sticky carpet, the sports TV? What is the world coming to?

My life is ruined. I now feel obliged to neglect my family, and my local pub, drink too much and eat more rich food than is probably good for me, spend more money than I can afford, and suffer regular agonising death at the hands of my wife - all because of this pub. On your own heads be it, and let this letter serve as a stern warning to others.

Yours etc.

M. O. Gitt


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