Last pub of the night, before a deeply unsatisfactory Chinese takeaway and restless nights sleep on Blackpool Road.
Ah, the Plungington.
Never heard of it. Just past the Princess Alice, but a million miles away in every other respect, you could almost be in Fulwood.
The menu was the giveaway we’d found Preston’s only gastropub.
The food trade had nearly finished, it seemed, and we were left with the pleasing detritus of the hard-drinking Preston middle classes.
At the bar, we were aided by our choices by those invaluable jam jars distinguishing the subtle shades of pale, just like in the Procul Harum song that Matthew probably wrote.
I think we had the Golden Best, which I confess looked half-decent in a half-pint mug and drank pretty well, considering (NBSS 3).
No psychedelia unfortunately, just Cyndi Lauper “True Colours” and Nena (guess what) to remind us that in Fulwood it is always 1984.
A nice upmarket drinking pub, I thought, but Matt was shaking with rage about something, I know not what.
Possibly the handled jug. Academics will be discussing this long after the mysteries of JFK and the moon landings are solved.
Or why people torture furry animals by tying them to the front of their car.