Now, Kentucky, Buffalo Mozarella and I were shooting the breeze while sitting in the garden of the Swan with one n at the front and two nn’s at the back. Spelling, eh? It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, Frenchie was hanging around the bogs, Bob was his usual laid-back self, and only Max was missing. It was an ideal opportunity to discuss what makes the perfect pub. Well, obviously, Kentucky said, it has to have no French disease on the bog seats. More helpfully, Buffalo reckoned that the beer must be clear; the barmaids must be well-made; and the decor must be softcore. Not to be out done by a cheese-eating boy from the East coast, Bob explained that for Max the essentials hinge on the potential for minge, for Kentucky the girls must be mucky, and for the consul there must be an eyeful of recently shaven pits. He’s not a poet; I hope he don’t blow it.