A cheeky post work pint during January is proper naughty. While the majority of sensibly minded folk retreat to their lairs and rape the Blockbuster membership, we somehow ended up drinking at Andrew Weatherall's local in the heart of Shoreditch. The vibe in there is more cold than Crimaen. Drinking inside was a past time almost as Baltic as standing on a hill in Iceland.
It's probably how the great man likes it. A pox on the heating! Let's get medieval, chew tobacco and discuss facial grooming and stories from the sea.
The great man was spotted in here minutes before I arrived by a reliable witness. And an extremely affable bar staffer informed us that Weathers usually pops in with his pug for a coke. If it's late, he might sling a few rums in it. What a man. To celebrate we became overly bashy and sourced some non-descript powder. What would Weatherall do? Naughty, naughty
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