Hotel of hurt

Here is the view from my town centre hotel in Scouse. And therein lies a problem.

No, not the distinct lack of Superlambananas. Although that was sad and makes Scouse a duller town. Neither is it the fact that I'm not looking directly out onto the fine buildings and statues that are readily in that part of town; all I have to do is turn my head to the right by about fifteen degrees and there they are. Not even I am that lazy.

No, the problem lies with that cream building lurking behind the trees, to the right of the redbrick office block. It's name is Ship and Mitre. It is a pub. It is a pub with which I have a certain history. One that I have difficulty remembering as every time I go in there, the beer fairies ambush me, hold me down, empty my wallet, hold my nose and force feed me beer until I am silly. It's a form of mugging. I don't WANT it to happen. Of course I don't, who would, I mean in this day and age we all drink responsibly, the government tell us to and we always do what they say because they're always right, right? On this occasion the beer fairies got a pass out to help me pass out and ambushed me early in Doc Duncans, fifty yards to the right of the picture. Hmmm, that didn't help either. It's a dangerous place. And I choose to stay there. It's madness.

Maybe I should book a hotel in a saner area. Like Kabul. Or Mogadishu.