A Man Walks Into a Pub…
During a weekend visit to San Diego, my friends and I happened to chance upon an ‘Irish Pub.’ As a native of a country where your local alehouse is not only your second home but the cornerstone of your entire community, I was understandably drawn inside. Some time later, as I watched my American frieand slurping a rather suspect and bright-blue cocktail charmingly named ‘Adios Motherfucker,’ her eyes glued to one of the 50 or so television screens adorning the walls, hip-hop blaring over the sound-system and not an ashtray in sight, I started to question the grounds on which this establishment felt fit to deem itself a ‘pub.’
We British are famous for our love of beer. Indeed, we are renowned in the world for getting hammered like we’ve only just discovered it. But that’s not to say that our cousins across the pond don’t enjoy the odd brewsky too. Quite the contrary. The delightful and uniquely American concepts of beer pong, keg stands and (my personal favorite) chugging are testaments to the fact that we all enjoy the odd can. However, when, with a view to indulge in this shared passion, Brits and Americans saunter down to the pub, those on opposite sides of the Atlantic can expect to have very different experiences.
There is a critical distinction between the charm of a true British pub