The Three Kings

The first big pub night since our return. Venue: The Three Kings in Farringdon. This is an old haunt from out last life in London, and I have memories of standing outside in the street on warm summer evenings, sipping Guinness in the road. The pub is so small that there are never any seats, I reflect as we take the tube there.

A series of slowly awakening memories stir as we exit the tube and I remember the station - the dual stairs that lead up, a pointless redundancy, I always think. Then the streets outside. I thought I'd have to call for directions, as my mind was blank as to the details, until we walked along the street. A map slowly was retrieved from my spider-web brain and we followed it to the pub without incident.

Rounds. I'm having trouble with rounds somehow since I got back. I always feel like I'm in the middle of a pint when someone buys a round. So I'm unable to buy more than one round before the same guy is buying me more beer. I don't remember rounds being so tricky for the first 12 or so years of my drinking life in England. I suppose it is how a tourist feels when obliged to join in with the odd system. I made myself feel better by buying the 11 o'clock half pints at the end of the night.

I find that I'm still in the habit of drifting off into space during conversations, so used to, am I, not understanding the French that they are normally conducted in Montreal. Of course, drifting off during an English conversation just looks plain rude, or as if you're bored to death. None of which is really true.

A few pints of Old Speckled Hen. Mr. Beer pulled a peculiar face at this choice and sucked in air between his teeth.

'I can't drink that, it's too strong. It gives me the shits.'

'Really?' I say, sipping it carefully.

So I'm drunk anyway, but so is everyone else. Mr. Fish pulled out his thesis and showed everyone some interesting quotes, explaining what a neo-Marxist was, as compared to a plain old full on Marxist. From what I gather, neo-Marxists don't demand a revolution exactly, but just generally like to criticize current government policy from armchairs (or barstools). Of course, I'm probably wrong.

I, in turn, drunkenly explain the difference between England, Britain and the UK, as one of the Quebec drinkers didn't know (and nor did anyone else, so it seems). After my explanation, May, the schoolteacher amongst us says,

'Yes, but what's your country then?'

Good question.

The night draws to a close and people wander off to nurse hangovers-to-be.

On the way home we purchase outrageously expensive falafels from a gaff on Stroud Green Road (it shall remain nameless) which was truly, truly awful. The wife, a mayonnaise lover if there ever was one said,

'It almost put me off all mayonnaise for life, the stuff on that.'

At home, apart from the falafel, there was a terrible smell. Much cupboard opening and sniffing was done in order to find the source, but to no avail. It was a truly awful smell, which only served to further the misery of the falafel. We never actually found what the nasty smell was, and the next morning it was gone. To give you an idea (though, it is impossible to describe), it was like a cross between burnt hair, beeswax, old curry and semen. Just imagine.

On other fronts, I'm finding that I can't stop talking English now - asking in shops how much is this, what's that, how does this work, what's the time, is that the 134 to Crouch End? Etc. In Montreal I'd tend to stifle such questions due to the inevitable conversation that would ensue with the Francophone pulling pained faces as I spoilt their beautiful language. The kind of face you'd pull if forced to listen to white noise, at full volume, at 4am.