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“When I was in London in 2008, I spent a couple hours hanging out at a pub with a couple of blokes who were drinking away the afternoon in preparation for going to that evening's Arsenal game/riot. Take away their Cockney accents, and these working-class guys might as well have been a couple of Bubbas gearing up for the Alabama-Auburn game. They were, in a phrase, British rednecks. And this is who soccer fans are, everywhere in the world except among the college-educated American elite. In Rio or Rome, the soccer fan is a Regular José or a Regular Giuseppe. [...] By contrast, if an American is that kind of Regular Joe, he doesn't watch soccer. He watches the NFL or bass fishing tournaments or Ultimate Fighting. In an American context, avid soccer fandom is almost exclusively located among two groups of people (a) foreigners—God bless 'em—and (b) pretentious yuppie snobs. Which is to say, conservatives don't hate soccer because we hate brown people. We hate soccer because we hate liberals.”
― Robert Stacy McCain

“Though it had no wide reputation, all manner of people frequented 'The Midnight Bell.' This was in its nature, of course, since it is notorious that all manner of people frequent all manner of public-houses - which in this respect resemble railway stations and mad-houses.”
― Patrick Hamilton, Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky

“Always ask at the pub, Miss Jekyll. Elementary investigation - the pub always knows.”
― Theodora Goss, The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

“I've never been thrown out of a pub, but I've fallen into quite a few”
― Benny Bellamacina, Philosophical Uplifting Quotes and Poems

“When a man wants to have an alehouse meltdown, the worst thing you can do is stand in his way”
― Luke Haines, Post Everything: Outsider Rock and Roll

“Never go for a drink in London's square mile, nobody ever gets a round in.”
― Benny Bellamacina, Little Luigi: A Musical Adventure

“Stale beer sticks to wobbling tables. The cigarette machine flashes in the corner, mocking smokers who never have any change on them. There’s no natural light in this pub, so it’s dark and gloomy. The pain on the face of the staff tells its own story: overworked, underpaid, exploited and treated as expendable. I feel at home with them. They’re so scared they will be fired from their terrible jobs, every time I order a beer they ask me if I want any peanuts or crisps, in case between drinks I’ve turned into the dreaded mystery shopper. The air is chewy and weighs heavy on the skin. The fruit machines in the corners don’t make a sound, aware this is the last stop saloon for the drunk few who can’t afford to gamble properly. Everyone here is down to their last pint and pound.”
― Craig Stone, Life Knocks

“Always skip to the pub to enjoy your barley and hops”
― Benny Bellamacina, Philosophical Uplifting Quotes volume 2

“Havana Cafe
Bar de temática cubana ubicado en la principal playa de Palma de Mallorca, la Playa de Palma. Disfruta de un cóctel mientras contemplas las espectaculares puestas de sol sobre el mar Balear. Los cruceros se deslizan lentamente hasta el puerto deportivo de Palma y los turistas y lugareños pasan junto a ti en el paseo marítimo. Palma, promociones en bebidas, bares, clubes, lounges, pubs, clubes nocturnos, vida nocturna, entrada con lista, calendario de eventos, música en vivo, horarios de espectáculos, promociones bebidas, happy hour. La salsa, el baile y las risas son una constante en Havana Café, Mallorca.
¶Ù¾±°ù±ð³¦³¦¾±Ã³²Ô:
Carretera Arenal 4 Playa de Palma, 07610 Palma de Mallorca, Majorca Spain
para más información haga clic aquí”
― bedpage

“The pub. It remained the only place in the world that had not evolved into anything more sophisticated. The buildings rose, the towers hit never- ending growth spurts, the concrete sidewalks turned to polycarbonate glass billboards, and the cars drove people. But the pubs—the pubs with their gritty melancholy—endured time. No matter how advanced this species grew to be, the human heart was never short of confusion and in need of the rugged, little lullaby of alcohol and alone time.”
― Karl Kristian Flores, The Goodbye Song

“Raffe lifted the latch on the heavy door and sidled in. As usal, he gagged as he took his first breath in the cloying, fishy stink of the smoke that rose from the burning seabirds, which were skewered on to the wall spikes in place of candles. In the dim oily light, he could make out the vague outlines of men sitting in twos and threes around the tables, heard the muttered conversations, but could no more recognize a face than see his own feet in the shadows.

A square, brawny woman deposited a flagon and two leather beakers on a table before waddling across to Raffe. Pulling his head down towards hers, she planted a generous

kiss on his smooth cheek. Thought you'd left us,' she said reprovingly. You grown tired of my eel pic?'

How could anyone grow tired of a taste of heaven?' Raffe said, throwing his arm around her plump shoulders and squeezing her.

The woman laughed, a deep, honest belly chuckle that set

her pendulous breasts quivering. Raffe loved her for that. 'He's over there, your friend,' she murmured. 'Been wait ing a good long while.'

Raffe nodded his thanks and crossed to the table set into a
dark alcove, sliding on to the narrow bench. Even in the dirty mustard light he could recognize Talbot's broken nose and thickened ears.

Talbot looked up from the rim of his beaker and grunted. By way of greeting he pushed the half-empty flagon of ale towards Raffe. Raffe waited until the serving woman had set a large portion of eel pie in front of him and retreated out of earshot. He hadn't asked for food, no one ever needed to here. In the Fisher's Inn you ate and drank whatever was put in front of you and you paid for it too. The marsh and river were far too close for arguments, and the innkeeper was a burly man who had beaten his own father to death when he was only fourteen, so rumour had it, for taking a whip to him once too often. Opinion was divided on whether the boy or the father deserved what they suffered at each other's hands, but still no one in those parts would have dreamed of report ing the killing. And since the innkeeper's father lay rotting somewhere at the bottom of the deep, sucking bog, he wasn't in a position to complain.”
― Karen Maitland, The Gallows Curse

“Is there any other place where a more vibrant palette of human behaviour can be observed than the Scottish pub?
Our drinking holes are social spaces, shelters and, with the rise of flexible working and free WiFi, informal offices.
The pub is a courtroom, a therapist's clinic, a place to let socks dry out after an arduous day orienteering.
Relationships begin and end in its confines.
Pub dogs become celebrities.
If we run with the myth that there are languages with fifty words for snow, Scots could match that with their own terms related to the act of drinking.”
― Gabriella Bennett, The Art of Coorie: How to Live Happy the Scottish Way

“Scots have sat to sip alcohol with friends for centuries.
The coorie roadside coach houses with space to tether a horse may since have been upgraded into speakeasies with copper fittings but the original idea endures.
They are still a place to let thoughts uncoil after a tough day out in the world, where it is possible to be solitary and sociable at the same time.”
― Gabriella Bennett, The Art of Coorie: How to Live Happy the Scottish Way