Bedford nightlife

Good morning from Bedford, the home of the takeaway pizza. (Or, at least, that's how we've come to see it. In that respect it shares a similarity with Doncaster, Grantham and Morcott.)

Yesterday's walk passed by in fairly routine manner - blazing, alarmingly intense sunshine, further equipment breakage (the water carrier), some Sport Beans and a few rock anthems thrown in for good measure. Shortly after arriving at this, our fifth Travelodge so far, we decided on a brief trip to the local pub.

The Bird In Hand sits on the corner of a large housing estate in which every road is named after a bird. (Curlew Crescent was a particular favourite.) We walked into the main bar to find the room empty save for two people. The barman, a very widely-built fellow with shaven hair and a fixed stare out into the room, stood motionless. In the far corner, a man whose piercings were threatening to outnumber his tattooes sat slumped at a table, gazing at a copy of The Sun without ever turning the page, his two empty and one half-full pint glass on the table next to it. On one wall was pinned a food menu offering four options: chilli and chips, burger and chips, hot-dog and chips, chips. The stillness of the room was underlined by the two ceiling fans that hung motionless in front of the bar. One had its full set of four blades; the other only three. Wading through the silence, we made our way to the bar, ordered our drinks and sat down in the far corner.

The room remained silent. Attempting not to draw attention to ourselves and thereby incur the wrath of an establishment whose unspoken code had been breached, we kept our voices to a whisper. Meanwhile, the barman stared. Bereft of anybody to serve or any barmanistic tasks to undertake, he simply... stared.

After some fifteen minutes or so had passed, the barman disappeared from sight for a moment. From nowhere and with no warning, the room was filled with the loud, loud strains of music. "Son, you are a bachelor boy, and that's the way you'll stay," it sang. "Son, you'll be a batchelor boy until your dying day."

Perhaps you've heard the song before. We hadn't. And we never want to again.

The music having reached its bizarre conclusion, the room was once more plunged into silence, as abruptly as it had been hauled out of it moments earlier. Shortly afterwards, the barman came over and closed all the windows near us. That way, nobody would hear our screams.

We left quickly.