Euro Pubbo Grimbo cultural seekings?

Of course, when I say I'd like to be in the pub, the pubs up here are only SO desireable. If I'm honest, what I'd really like and what I should have said is to be sat in a pub somewhere else, not here. Somewhere warm and nice. Like, to take an example by Blejsko jezero, the Bar Preseren'd do just fine. On the tables outside, the sunset filtering through the trees by the lake as you watch fat german tourists punted about on the pletna's; waiter service for a handled mug of "the green one". And a nice pasta'y something coming out of the kitchen that's never seen a microwave, or a cream slice with about a million calories in it. And where you're able to leave the bill for your tab on the table without some sports shirt wearing bastard from the 'Nunny gypping it within seconds to fund his evening's smack habit; going up to the bar everytime is just so northern european and ... gah!

Under the circumstances though, I thought the Tap and Spile'll do.

Except that the Tap and Spile involves having to listen to the middled aged dreadful voiced woman who's aim for the evening is to bitch and gripe about the fact that someone dares pinch her place in the pool table queue; that the outdoor seating is somewhat less expansive than I remembered; the light was on the other side of the building and the river Freshney that runs outside is frankly stagnant and smelly. The Barge was right out... at half past five, on a nice summer's evening with trees to sit in the shade of, they've got Fear Factory coming out of the door at jaw grinding intensity. I like Fear Factory, but there's a time and a place, this is neither. Just seems to compound the urban dispair of those who walk through the doors later in the evening. So that won't be me. It's starting to get desparate; I walk past a lot of pubs and none of them are doing it for me; inadvertantly I walk past a decent bit of culture; the Fisherman's memorial. I like it. Good god, something about this place that gets an approval rating. I generally find myself disliking the place these days, but then I dislike most towns, why discriminate. Why can't they do nice maisionettes in the country?

As I walk through the town centre, I want a cultural drinking experience; chucking it down my neck by the gallon with the proles, numbing the pain of their existance is not what's doing it for me tonight. A pint of Tom Woods Bomber County is not dulling my pain either; I will generally get sucked in by any such marketting in the form of tribute I consider deserved and WW2 themes are a fav'; but tonight's pint was overmalted mud water. Not what the doctor ordered. Actually he'd probably order a complete end to all ale based jollies. He's no fun.

Cleethorpes is out of bounds; by the time I get there for beer on the beach, it'll be time to catch the last train home again, or the expensive taxi which misses the point entirely.

Ally's winebar saves the day. Down a little upmarket shopping arcade that survives the nastyness because it's gated. External speakers playing nice music, nice bricked pavement, perfect garden chairs, tables and brollies, all it needs is a water feature. Blow up the right drain on the right car park and it could even get one. Bled it ain't but for tonight it'll do; got my big pretentious newspaper; my big pretentious paperback and ye gods, the large white wine glasses are filled and kicking me in the head as per advertised. A shame I had to muck it up by having a kebab on the way home. Should I get "don't serve me, I don't really like your muck" tattoo'd on my forehead in Turkish?