No right of passage is quite as character building as the pub crawl. And I’m not talking about your “we’ll do a couple of pubs dressed as golfers” bullshit. But the “grab the boys, make a plan, set up a kitty, get in, drink a pint and fuck off to the next pub” type of crawl. The ones that shaped our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers and our fathers’, fathers’ fathers. Crawls that leave you so drunk that you are actually clinically blind. Where the banter is rich, the tales are tall and legends are forged.
Legends like William ‘Young Willy’ Smith and ‘Welshly’ Percy Coles. Legends like ‘Jimmy the Arsehole’ and ‘Magnetic’ Pete Daubney. Men cut from cloth too rough to wear casually. Men of tweed, worsted and moleskin. Men who would (actually) fight to get the first round in. Where ‘eating was cheating’. And shorts were something that you bought only for Paulo ‘the dwarf’ Hernandez. Or the kids.
A bygone era. A time lost to history. Not any more. Today we welcome back the Southville Stroll.