A short but chilling picture from 1972, in which the zenith of human progress apparently equates to a travelling salesman checking in to an anonymous motel, walking past a group of silent people in a fish bowl type restaurant, then entering a tiny room, throwing his briefcase onto the orange banquette and, totally ignoring the three channel telly, starting his nightly routine of getting very pissed, completely alone, before tearfully phoning his estranged wife or trying to have a wank.
He'll regret it in the morning, especially when he realises he's been sick into the electric trouser press.
He'll regret it in the morning, especially when he realises he's been sick into the electric trouser press.
You may like this fine example, now sadly shuttered, but a hotbed of excitement and face-bottling: http://www.beerintheevening.com/pubs/s/33/33643/Hobsons_Choice/Warwick
ReplyDeleteSorry, just realised I posted this on the wrong entry. Feel free to remove it. It was a horrible pub.
ReplyDelete