Back from Prague, in the evening I went out with my fellows pedants, John and Stephen. We meet occasionally to be excessively and exaggeratedly pedantic about everything and anything. That’s the excuse, anyway, and normally we weave and wander happily home after a long and refreshing evening. But this time I wandered home more than a little discouraged and with not so much of the weaving. We started off at Fat Boys in the Place du Luxembourg and finished with a curry at Mumtaz in the Chaussée de Wavre. There’s a drop of the Irish blood in all three of us. At Fat Boys they were on the dark stuff, the Guinness, straightaway, but all I could manage was lager. Moreover, they were sticking them away and I just couldn’t keep up. Worse, I kept wondering when we would move on and eat (perish the thought) and, when we did, I had to leave behind undrunk beer (sacrilege!). William Hague, a former leader of the Conservative Party, was mercilessly teased by the press when he once reminisced about drinking many pints of beer on a Friday and Saturday night, but I think he was simply telling the truth. The standard model for Friday and Saturday nights was the pub (and many beers) until closing time, followed by a curry (and Indian restaurants had licences, so you could continue on the Kingfishers). And that’s what made me sad. I just couldn’t hack it anymore. I have lost the habit. (Having said that, I noticed that John and Stephen shifted to wine in the restaurant.)
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