Pub review
They say:
"I have been going to The Cross Rifle's with 3 or 4 friends for about 15 years. We usually go on a Friday evening about once every 4 weeks or so. It is usually quite loud and sometimes it's hard to make conversation. We always have a good night's drinking, and the Carling extra cold particularly good, Although I do wish they would sell Pernod! The clientele are mostly regulars, the most outstanding being a group of very friendly Lesbians, who are often up for a laugh. All in all a great bunch of people and the Bar Staff are great as well. The Reason I only give it 4 stars is Because they Don't Sell Pernod."--Philip Salt
4/5
I say:
I must look like a card-carrying member of the metropolitan elite. The bar staff quietly fret that I might not be able to cover my order with cold, hard cash. There's relief when I produce a tenner and my communist queen-hating credentials are in tatters. They comment that I must have been here before as if being a cash-only pub in Bridgwater is some kind of novelty. Located at the promontory of a residential peninsular the Cross Rifles sits between the Bristol road and the Bath road. The early evening traffic flows from the roundabout into incessant bisected streams. Rather busier than inside where I take the total clientele up to 5. The bar and the walls have a curious combination of timber frame infilled with brick in a regular overlapping pattern. It doesn't seem like it would be easy to fabricate and I'm not sure the visual impact warrants the effort. What I assume must be the landlord stands at the end of this faux-bar steadily drinking the profits. If he's not the landlord then someone really ought to step in. A few more people come in, they join the existing group and raise the conversation level enough (volume not quality) to make the place seem busy. A father and son stop by for beer, milk and a game of pool. A man stands alone at the opposite end of the bar to the bibulous 'landlord'. He seems to be the only one piqued by my presence. He looks at me like the ghost of consultancy future. Drifting through a foreign place forgotten by a distant employer, free of bureaucracy and fettered by grinding life. Like Kurtz up the river, are his methods unsound? I take a sip of my pint, glance up again and find, for no dramatic effect, he is gone.
2/5
They say:
"I have been going to The Cross Rifle's with 3 or 4 friends for about 15 years. We usually go on a Friday evening about once every 4 weeks or so. It is usually quite loud and sometimes it's hard to make conversation. We always have a good night's drinking, and the Carling extra cold particularly good, Although I do wish they would sell Pernod! The clientele are mostly regulars, the most outstanding being a group of very friendly Lesbians, who are often up for a laugh. All in all a great bunch of people and the Bar Staff are great as well. The Reason I only give it 4 stars is Because they Don't Sell Pernod."--Philip Salt
4/5
I say:
I must look like a card-carrying member of the metropolitan elite. The bar staff quietly fret that I might not be able to cover my order with cold, hard cash. There's relief when I produce a tenner and my communist queen-hating credentials are in tatters. They comment that I must have been here before as if being a cash-only pub in Bridgwater is some kind of novelty. Located at the promontory of a residential peninsular the Cross Rifles sits between the Bristol road and the Bath road. The early evening traffic flows from the roundabout into incessant bisected streams. Rather busier than inside where I take the total clientele up to 5. The bar and the walls have a curious combination of timber frame infilled with brick in a regular overlapping pattern. It doesn't seem like it would be easy to fabricate and I'm not sure the visual impact warrants the effort. What I assume must be the landlord stands at the end of this faux-bar steadily drinking the profits. If he's not the landlord then someone really ought to step in. A few more people come in, they join the existing group and raise the conversation level enough (volume not quality) to make the place seem busy. A father and son stop by for beer, milk and a game of pool. A man stands alone at the opposite end of the bar to the bibulous 'landlord'. He seems to be the only one piqued by my presence. He looks at me like the ghost of consultancy future. Drifting through a foreign place forgotten by a distant employer, free of bureaucracy and fettered by grinding life. Like Kurtz up the river, are his methods unsound? I take a sip of my pint, glance up again and find, for no dramatic effect, he is gone.
2/5
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