An hour we have sat here hence, in quiet contemplation. Before me now, a pint of Guinness: A thing of beauty, lovingly crafted shamrock inset into its thick, creamy head; tiny beads of moisture clinging to the lustrous glass and pooling amidst stains upon bar-mats old when Clinton was first impeached. A fleeting glimpse into the oneness of all things: Knowledge that this is not the first, nor shall it be the last; past, present and future blending reassuringly together when faced with the cool, healing draughts beloved of sufferers of iron deficiency and those with weightier troubles bearing down upon them. Would that those dark waters of Nepenthe could cover us, pulling us away into a world without cares and granting their amnesiac spell forever. I still remember; I remember another public house, another glass no less appealing than this, buried deep in hours past. Raising the cool vessel to my lips, I drink—imbibe at length—taking into myself this sacrifice of the cask as I did the others, carrying us both forward in resolute valediction of that which will never come again. Feeling the dark liquid soothe to my core and inhaling the rich aroma blurring with pipe tobacco and fresher, earthier scents, I gaze through the suds and the thickest glass at the imprecise image of an animal slain during times when men were men, women were unimpressed and sheep glanced around in perpetual fear. Lowering the lens of truth reveals to my deceitful vision a reproduction trophy of gaudy dimension, fake antlers shaped into coat pegs, sullen face twisted in all-too-real distaste. A glance around to ensure that there are others complicit in this nightmare of kitsch elicits a cast of thousands, sprung one and all from some unholy fount whilst my thoughts found blessed rest. Returning from the traditional bar—with its artificial lintel and cheap plastic taps—is my attorney, more sable nectar clutched in each uncertain paw, rubber soles shrieking against the varnished plank floor, a battered something drooping loosely from his mouth. This thing, this miasmic cloud spreads in earnest contravention of the red and white sign nestling upon the wall adjacent to the genuine Davy Crockett™ nylon/fur head-warmer, and I realise that soon will come the time when our civilising mission will be forced to flee before the wrath of an angry native chief. Sure enough, he upbraids us for our unseemly conduct and guides us jerkily towards the beer garden with a pointed jab at the swimming pink legend. Turning, he shakes both his fierce, savage heads and we are left alone…in the company of…reptiles. Rows and rows of them, seated along trestle tables of Timberland oak; supping the same life-giving fluids as I and those of many shifting rainbow colours (no two the same). They are wearing their scales on the inside this evening, but it is obvious from their genial disposition that they expect to kill and feast easily before the night is done. My attorney impresses them with a trick involving the contents of his trousers, and whilst they gawp at the size and distortion of the fiery red beast guarding his loins atop green fields and bright, cloudy skies, we make good our escape.

And this is 00:13am. A craving for spiritual sustenance overcomes us both, and we adjourn to the grotto of itinerant kebab-peddlers, where—for a modest fee—they replace the emptiness of our souls with starchy potato goodness and wholesome creamy-white ooze. We depart their premises amidst a cascade of loose change and mislaid crumbs of solid from the wallet of my legal advisor, only to be greeted with an offering of greater religious significance than ever we could have imagined! It is regal and stately in its triangular and fluorescent orange glory, as if boldly to state: Let there be art for the starving, pornography for the fat, and dogs playing poker for everyone else! We seize upon this nobly conical artefact of a mystical realm and bear it aloft! —But are foiled in our enlightenment by the fellow tribes—people of the lizard-harbouring, would-be antelope-killer, who demand its return to the half-built temple of stone that it may guide the paths of others. As they depart in their zebra-mobile, counsel for the defence rests with the proposition that we explore the cave up ahead, a sign above which unflinchingly proclaims "License until 2am!" The day—as I agree—is but beginning…