We have to watch over our nights of drinking. Less they slip into complacency. Less they fall away into pubism.
Drinking mustn’t be consolation. Mustn’t allow our reconciliation to the way things are.
The pub is not a place for petty moanings. For gossip. For he said this or she said that. And I said. There’s to be no huddling together to share our problems. No crying into our beer. No whisky lamentation about the state of our lives.
This is not a retreat into the pub, but an escape through it. This is the pub as launchpad. As space capsule.
We don’t want to live low. We don’t want to sink. We’re looking to flare upwards. To burn up. If it’s oblivion we want, it’s oblivion in flames.
No pubism. No pub mediocrity. We’re mediocre in life, God knows. There’s mediocrity everywhere – God knows. But in the pub …
We’re exploring. This is a voyage, right here at our table. Right here, with our beer mats. With our pints.
We’re looking to bestir ourselves. To snatch a little transcendence from the day. We trying not to be buried with our defeats. We want to roll away our stones. We want to be resurrected. We want a last chance, in the last hours before closing time, to redeem our day …
Work in Progress 