Dear God why must the pub be the center of the universe in the London? Try as I might to fight it, all roads lead back to this tragic English establishment. My repulsion of this place, cherished in the hearts of all Brits, is met with utter bewilderment. There is a satisfaction, a sort of English pride, about one’s “local.”

One’s “local” is a proper English pub where no tourists have ever set foot, only authentic working-class alcoholics. If you’re really good, there will be a mangy dog that lives in there as well, and the name of the place will be something cute and senseless, like “The Cock and the Shovel.” From around eleven in the morning until eleven at night you can drink lukewarm beer and eat crisps. Proper pubs don’t have anything you could eat aside from crisps; gastro-pubs are not authentic. No sir, only a proper pub will cut it— bring on the crisps and the pork rinds.

Delightfully damp and crusty carpet lines the floors, in the bathrooms as well, and there is no music. Music would distract one from soaking in the true pub experience. NOTHING can get between you and the pub. The full experience is truly intoxicating; from the gorgeous olfactory mélange of wet dog and stale ale to the visual delights of your regulars: tea-stained teeth, greasy hair and heaving mammary glands.

Despite its innumerable charms I find myself retreating to the comforts of my flat most evenings, and regrettably, this is when the pub is at its most active. Want to know what your coworkers REALLY think of you? You will only ever learn the truth at THE PUB. Want to get ahead at your job? Forget late hours crunching numbers at the office; get your arse to THE PUB and catch up on those Carlsbergs. Want to make a move on your colleague? All pervy attacks are largely granted HR immunity if they take place at THE PUB, similar to horny exchanges at the CHRISTMAS PARTY. But, alas, this is a topic for another day.

Vienna has its coffee shops, Paris, its cafes, the US its diners, and the UK its pubs.

God save the Queen!