Notes from The Salisbury

Late into the evening in the Salisbury we find Alfie Hoole and Jethro O’Toole deep into their cups. Pledges of “I’m having just one more and getting an Uber” have been made and broken several times. Pool has been played (badly) and the jukey has been fed and the pair have now become exhausted of pound coins. There are twenty or so customers, some in small groups, some sitting alone. The new temporary barlord, Aleister Crowley is busy polishing glasses and keeping an eye open for approaching customers. He looks through the window and smiles briefly. The door swings open. The entrance frames a tall figure backlit by street lights. Dressed in a plastic, leather-look jacket, brown corduroy trousers and crepe-soled shoes commonly referred to as ‘brothel creepers’. The visage looks like the devil spawn of an unholy union between Catweazle and Stig of the Dump. This is Bob Todd. He’s looking ugly but to be fair, rather like a skull can be said to be smiling, he has little choice in th...

It is a balmy spring evening in the Salisbury and Alfie Hoole is deep in conversation with Jethro O’Toole. They are taking a much-needed break from the unseasonal hot weather, enjoying a few quiet drinks and the cool shade of the bar area. There are few customers in the bar, most have settled in the secret beer garden and occasional festival venue to the rear of the premises. First-time visitors to the Salisbury often remark on their disorientation. The pub seems bigger on the inside than it looks from the outside until you go into the secret garden where it looks bigger on the outside than it does on the inside.   It is said that the secret garden exists in its own hidden dimension beyond the generally accepted rules of time and space. But this only tends to be said by those who have imbibed too freely of the grape or the grain. Or those who smoke herbal cigarettes. Aleister Crowley, the new temporary barlord is listening intently to what he considers an erudite and ente...