|After a few beers in the Hotel Bar (no sign of the lady from Thursday night by the way) it was decided that something to eat would be the best idea before embarking on the usual imbibing of copious quantities of the local brew. Consulting our local scout again, he decided that the perfect place to eat would be The George, a hostelry well known from his previous life in Poole. After enquiring politely whether this would mean a repeat of the previous night's walkathon - "no, not at all, it's up on the roundabout near the hotel" -, we decided to trust him - again. Anyway, following the Great Circle Route, which everyone knows is the shortest route between two points on the Earth's surface, we eventually staggered blistered, hungry & thirsty into the George. We each ordered our beers and meals of choice and had to split up to tables either side of the hairy folk group who were setting up for the evening's musical entertainment ("We'll be out before they start"). The food eventually arrived. I think most of the steak was stolen from the local shoe menders, the fried eggs from the trampoline manufacturers, the chips courtesy of the local marble quarry and the lamb || chops from God knows where. When the PFL was asked about the quality of food in the George, he admitted, "Yes, it's always been shite". Anyway, having lock jawed our way through the mixed grills etc., we set off for the Quayside. Every landmark looks remarkably familiar when recalling last night's sojourn. He's done us again! After a couple of abortive single-pint stops, we end up on the actual Quayside and locate a Pub with live music. The band are taking a break when we arrive, but the fact that the place is packed out indicates they're not bad. Fight our way to the bar and get a round in. Halfway through the pint, a couple of us decide to look for somewhere less crowded and end up in the local Fishermen's pub, the Poole Arms, reminiscent of the pub in Royston Veysey. We are joined later by Bomber & Lofty and a quiet drink is had by all. The remaining five stay with the band and apparently a good time ensued. The Fab Four (average age 73) head back to the Hotel for an early night while the Frantic Five continue their pub crawl around Poole. Kev H experiences his second narcoleptic experience in The Hogshead,|| while Dave tries to fend off the bouncers, waking him up by pouring beer all over him. We'll draw a veil over the rest of the night, as I wasn't there and no one else is talking. Apart from one strange thing. Apparently, the band & their supporters were heavily into jumping up and down on the spot and, it seems they had it down to a fine art - all in perfect timing. Never one to miss a trick, DLT decided that this was a fine idea and that he and two cohorts who shall remain nameless (but they were both called Kev and Lofty wasn't there), would mimic this action every time someone said "Frank". Synchronisation was not their strong point and never will be if the next day's demonstration was anything to go by.
The Lord Nelson