Well, Coopers. What can you say? Given that our previous visits had been very early on in the day, it was a rather unusual "treat" to find ourselves at this dismal drinking establishment in the midst of Saturday night. That's not to say that its clientèle was any less migratory than at eleven in the morning, but there was a certain added desperation in the eyes of the drinkers, who seemed to be silently telling us with a tragic wistfulness that it's not their fault they've ended up drinking in a lonely station pub at the height of the weekend.
Rather bizarrely, Simon chose to give Coopers a maverick seven-point rating, though this decision was drunkenly influenced by a desire to rock the boat, or throw his toys out of the pram, rather than toe the party line or sing from the same hymn-sheet. I do feel, however, that in doing so he managed to throw the baby out with the bath water.
| Robert | 3 |
| Pad | 5.5 |
| Simon | 7 |
| Tim | 5 |
| Alan | 4 |
| Average | 4.9 |
Still, there's no accounting for taste (beauty being in the eye of the beholder), and after all, beggars can't be choosers – particularly when you bear in mind that the best things in life are free. After all, half the truth is often a whole lie, and Simon (who doesn't believe that honesty is the best policy) would do well to remember that he who sups with the Devil should have a long spoon. It's an ill bird that fouls its own nest, so never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you: no penny, no paternoster.
Seeing is believing, so I hereby provide an almost invisible picture of Coopers:
Perhaps the most remarkable thing about Coopers (apart from the fact that they've managed to stay in business for so long) is their extreme attitude to air conditioning in the men's toilets, which could best be summed up with the phrase "if you can't stand the heat, get off the crapper".
After waiting so long at Liverpool Street, we were now very pressed for time. Having proved that you can't fit a quart into a pint pot, we realised that time waits for no man, so we decided to strike while the iron was hot and make our way to St Pancras; though thankfully its proximity to King's Cross meant that we could make up for lost time. Quickly come, quickly go – that's what I say. Then again, I also say softly, softly, catchee monkey.