It's getting harder to find a non-PC pub, where regulars still smoke, spit, swear and generally insult the human race. I was in a South Devon quayside den last night, listening to the traditional cursing and coarseness from the bar, well into a pint of Dartmoor Best and Messi's magic on the box. What were they arguing about? How best to grill sea bass! A crew of trawlermen debating the merits of mackerel oil and which balsamic vinegar is best to pickle fresh-caught scallops. I staggered off to a real old dive where old salts are as quick to knock back their tankards as to cast doubt on your mother's virtue. The way was was blocked by a Newfoundland sea-dog slurping a pail of Guinness. As I edged past, what did I hear? Two grizzled old pirates debating the merits of braising pork with walnuts!
The kitchen has become the new bedroom, by all accounts.
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