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The Rose Revived is a handsome and ancient hostelry next to one of
the oldest bridges on the Thames. We decided to stop there despite
its breaking a number of my rules: It's on the main road; it has big
blackboards with fake-chalk writing, advertising food. What persuaded
us was the beautiful hanging baskets, clearly well looked after. But
we should have had more sense. Those flower baskets were the only
good thing about this place - I'll bet their care is sub-contracted
to some flower company. The place reeked of catering fat, the rear
of the pub, next to the huge car park was full of overflowing blue
skips, inside, walls had been knocked out to produce a hideous airport-style
space with a sticky floor, and the service was from a surly and dim
girl who chatted to her feckless-looking boyfriend as she grudgingly
pulled a short pint with dirty fingers. Outside, a series of wasp-blown
and ketchup-smeared picnic tables were covered in leftover plates
and glasses. The window sills were black with grime and the lavatories
aggressively malodorous. The message: NOBODY GIVES A DAMN. Sorry,
but this is just not good enough. Rejected with knobs on! Perry Stalsis.
2004 |
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