New evidence suggests that pub crawls are not in the least bit fun and are, in fact, shite.
The editorial team at The Bluelands Gazette travelled to a typical English town in order to full immerse ourselves in the fine art of this popular tradition and spoke to a number of fellow drinkers on the way.
Ryan, 30, is a committed drinker who dislikes limiting himself to just one watering hole in any given evening. “Why sit in one nice pub to drink when you can drag your mates round loads of them?” he points out. “We get a cab into town every Saturday night at about 7 and start with a couple of pints in The Red Lion. Then we nip next door to the King’s Head for another pint. We then visit The Fleece and Firkin, The Lamb and Flag, The Green Man, O’Malleys, and then have a couple of whisky chasers at The Fork in the Road. By the time we get kicked out of The Fork in the Road for starting a fight we’re 50 quid down each and we smell of pickled onion crisps. It’s what Saturday night are made for. Although we have been barred from The Fork now, to be fair.”
However Tommo, 33, is less keen. “The first pub is fine. You get a table early doors, take off your coat, scarf and gloves, and settle in. Then before you’ve finished your first drink the others are urging you to drink up. So you gulp the last few mouthfuls while they’re putting their coats on and edging toward the door. You traipse in the freezing cold to the next pub but there’s nowhere to sit, so you stand at the bar with your coat, scarf and gloves on the floor. This happens another 6 times during the evening. By the end your coat has been trodden on so much you look like a tramp. Why couldn’t we just stay in the first pub?”
On our pub crawl The Gazette lost 3 gloves and a laptop between us, and someone chucked a kebab at Allie. We can confirm that pub crawls are shite.