Don't Close The Bar

"If I had an 11-inch penis - and for all you know, I might do - I wouldn't keep it quiet. Christ, I'd put it on my CV."

I can't emphasise enough how much I've missed overhearing snippets of conversation like the one above in the weeks that Trev's been closed. Somehow, my life's just not complete unless I'm listening to the hilarious (if often bizarre) political and sexual philosophies of the bar's youthful clientele. Whether it's the Monday Night Club debating the relative merits of the nicknames "jizz-bunny" and "spunk-monkey", or the Accidental Anarchist declaring after seven tequila-shots that money has no meaning (yet oddly refusing my offer to relieve him of the twenty-pound note he just withdrew from the bank), there's no shortage of entertainment to be had with our fresh-faced regulars.

Many years ago, I used to wish that this place was open twenty-four hours a day, and offered a bed and breakfast option. Even now, there are times that the notion seems appealing, and I'd imagine many of the current regulars feel the same. If it wasn't for the fact that they'd all be skint within a matter of days, it'd be tempting to pursue the idea and see where it ended up. Our very own Fawlty Towers, populated by The Inbetweeners? I can't imagine anything that could possibly go wrong with that plan.