The tales of Simon’s traumas in rail replacement bus to Barrow put to shame our own mild irritation with the drunk poet on Rye-Hastings leg of our Saturday Sozzler.
We were pleased to make the safety of the scruffy underpass, but then kept bumping into the Port Laureate of the Downs on every corner, haranguing strangers with long words.
I thought Mrs RM would be a bit annoyed at being forced to stop in one of the UK’s grimmest Wetherspoons (with all my vouchers gone!). In teeming rain.
But her irritability was just hunger, and she wasn’t being fobbed off with Timbo pizza, so I settled for a quick half.
Mirroring Dorchester, the Old Dairy was undrinkable, so I left it on the bar and chased Mrs RM into the rain.
“You can’t just leave it! Go back and change it!”
So I did. The Fire Bird was barely better.
The fortune teller predicted I’d survive the night by offering an angry lady my umbrella and finding her a steaming plate of Drunken Noodles darn quick.
Old Town’s Siam 2 was lovely, finding us a table on a busy night when the seafood places couldn’t. Oddly, they still made us make a proper table booking when we’d already sat down and ordered.
Outside loo too, a little gem.
Mrs RM, bless her, was now fortified for the inevitable uphill walk through the Old Town. Which she’d never seen, despite being born 20 miles up the road in (Disgusted of) Tunbridge Wells.
Even the Sheps pubs looked improbably inviting.
“It’s gorgeous” she said. And it is.
Never drink on a full stomach is my motto (see:Bradford) and I steered her away from the FILO.
I reckon Rye is a little bit jealous of Hastings, don’t you?