Every five minutes, Richmond asks the barman if he can put the rugby on. Every five minutes, the barman says no.
“This place is OK,” says Peckham, “but it’d be better if it was a multi-story car park, right guys? Guys??”
As the last of the evening sun flickers in the pub garden, and his cherubic children frolic about him with the family’s aging gun dog, Barnes takes a sip from his half pint of nut-brown Cornish porter and makes a mental note to track down a stronger tarpaulin for next week’s swingers party.
Wimbledon is clutching giddily at a pitcher of Pimm’s and crying "Come on Andy!" intermittently at a pair of bemused darts players.
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Joe Bullmore is a London writer and a pretty big deal. Follow him on Twitter to see why.