Crumpled Horn - ###

Date: Saturday 20th January
Guests: Auntie Rex, Top Cat
Guests failed:
Time:
Beer: non-existent
Condition:
Price:
Choice:
Service:
Clientele:
Spoke to:
Music:
Notes: (Contributed by Top Cat) The Crumpled Horn was a par 4. The sameness of the fairway presented a particular challenge to our navigation through this municipal course. There were grassy banks, no trees, shoe box houses all proudly displaying shiny cars which looked disproportionately large in their drive ways. Having negotiated the broad sweep, a sharp left and gentle rise took us to the green. We knew we had arrived as there as there was a collection of bottle bank pods. Decanting from the car we were presented with dark shadows, empty spaces and sheer walls crowded around. The Crumpled Horse rose above us like a walnut whirl in a theme park. The veranda was cluttered with chairs, garden heaters and wind blown rubbish. On entry we were 2 under par, my heart sank they were singing “you’ll never walk alone” as if in Klingon. To get an idea off what Klingon sounds like control/click on this Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam which means, incidentally, “today, is a good day to die”.

There was a hesitation as we approached the bar. The entire pub was pissed. In the far corner was a gaggle of pool players sporting red football shirts while singing particularly loudly and badly. We were 2 under par, the absence of real beer put us 1 under. However the Guinness served up was excellent. For the most part the clietelle paid little attention to us. A tall tattooed girl cruised closely past as if to listen-in to our voices, perhaps to establish whether we too were Klingon. Immediately in front of us was a wheel chair bound man being straddled by a woman either simulating sex or possibly in the act, it was difficult tell. A drunken woman had difficulty remaining perched on her stool. She was so drunk that ultimately she gave up on the stool, lurched forward, stumbled, stooped and totally disorientated left the pub. Our conversation, as in the Liden Arms was stilted as it was hard to relax. Distraction was a good idea at that point - a pound from the kitty went into a movie quiz machine. We were hopeless, that was soon over. Another shot down.

I liked the building, as it was full of dark corners. Little Chalfont daringly ventured upstairs, apparently finding only an empty space. He nevertheless seemed impressed. I surveyed the outer reaches spying 3 feral youths with no drinks. They were joined by a Klingon with a particularly huge protruding eyebrow and deep creases in his polished scalp. We thought it would perhaps be best to leave before the feral children smelled their prey....... The bar man came out from behind the counter exclaiming: “fucking hell, another 5 hours to go”. We left on a par.