>>>>>Killing Time<<<<<

We thought we better have at least one pint of Guinness, given it's St Patrick's Day. So we head to what is one of the smallest pubs in Hull, The Sandringham. There's the two of us, the barmaid, and a slightly tipsy couple trying to sell us cigs for £2 a packet. The barmaid's unable to do a nice clover pattern in the head of the Guinness, due to "that piece of wood that sticks out the bar". Instead, we just get them passed to us with a funny little squiggle design on top. £2.50 a pint, which seemed fair enough to me, although the last time I bought a Guinness was in Ireland, last summer, so I'd admit to being a bit clueless on the recommended retail price. We're sat, minding our own business, and as un-party like as it's possible to get, when this cockerney sounding delivery man, who's just brought a barrel of beer over from a nearby pub, plonks himself down with us. "I don't wanna teach me granny to suck eggs," he rasps, apropos of fuck all, or so we thought. "They (nods towards the three other people in the pub) tell me you're celebrating Paddy's day. Do yourselves a favour, get out of here and head over the road. £1.70 a pint and you get a tri-colour to wear and a bag full of free stuff. And it's packed. That's where the party is." He looks like a right psycho who won't stand for us saying we had to be back at work in 2 minutes. So we down our Guinness double quick and told him we'd be straight there. He chuckles manically as we exit. And I dare say that he nipped into the other place minutes later to check we'd followed his advice and is now trying to track us down to shove cut-price Guinness where the sun don't shine.