Durty Nellys

I very rarely brace myself when entering a pub, I’m past the stage where I judge a place solely on the lone smoker outside, but I did brace myself entering Durty Nellys. It was the stories, you see. Chums who wouldn’t think twice about running into the beefiest skinhead they could find wearing an ‘I Hate Skinheads’ unitard downright refused to revisit the place. I don’t know why this persuaded me to go on my own, or even how I persuaded myself that going on my own would be a sensible thing to do, but I did.
Inside, I found a grand bread-​bin-​shaped room that had been worn down by years of grubby hands and spilled beer. It was rough in every aspect, like something you’d find in Escape from New York. Since it was only about 3pm, the customer base consisted of a few already-​sozzled punters with cackling laughs and a musical taste that didn’t extend far beyond the swinging twang of Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline ballads.
In short, it’s about as bad as taking pictures of yourself in the bath, but not quite as bad as sending them to family members.