Eviction. Later in the Oak, welled with a degree of satisfaction as to how the week had panned out, I was disturbed by the news that the Doc was about to ‘throw his hand in’ and walk away from the pub. There had been rumours, a dreadful summer, the smoking ban, a claim for compensation from some skanky who had fallen over a crack in the pavement, the pigs had been prematurely murdered, a disastrously expensive wet weekend of bands, regulars leaving in droves because of shite beer, ‘weights and measures’ prosecuting, ‘health and safety’ officers closing the kitchen compounded by the ultimate sickener, Robert Santus had his stag party at the Bowling Green. Not much to worry about really. The Doc, apparently, has not paid his rent for the past 12 months refusing even to negotiate with brewing company. Perhaps, this has some bearing on the case.
The weekend may reveal more?
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