Trekking across London on a hang-over on a busy Saturday afternoon is both tiring and stressful. So much so that despite being hung-over I manage to re-discover my thirst by the time I get to the boozer. The bar lady serves up my pint and I scan the crowd for a familiar face. The pub is crammed with blokes - and the occasional lass - in Rugby jerseys. Ireland are playing England and the atmosphere is swirling with beer fumes and testosterone. Not the kind of place you would expect to find somewhere called the ‘Ewok Village’.
I check my phone inbox again and sure enough the message reads ‘We’re in the Ewok Village’. I try to call but no one picks up. Am I in the wrong pub I wonder? I walk outside and see that the pub that I’m in is called the Faltering Fullback. Ah – that explains the rugby. This is the correct pub but there is no obvious connection to The ‘Ewok Village’. It must be a colloquialism; a secret code known only to a select few.
I type ‘Ewok Village’ into Google on my iphone – a difficult task with a pint in your hand - and find a post on a forum which confirms that I’m in the right place. The poster seemed to very much like having visited the Ewok Village and gave it a rave review. Surely, such an amazing place would be signposted in some form. Something like “This way to The Ewok Village’ or ‘Take the next right to the Ewok Village’ or a cute alien symbol denoting a place ‘inhabited’ by short, furry creatures. I circle the bar again and manage to spill some of my pint onto my shoes.
What men do in the face of defeat varies according to the man. Some men as Jon Bon Jovi articulated Go Out in a Blaze of Glory! These men are brave with thick masses of hair and can pull off wielding an axe in front of a burning church. Other men crumble like a piece of shortbread and offer to make adversity tea.
The large, drunk, Irish Rugby supporting man looks at me with confusion?
“What d’dja sh-ay?”
“I said…“Do you perhaps know where I would find THE EWOK VILLAGE?”
“The EWOK VILLAGE??????”
“Yes, THE EWOK VILLAGE. It’s meant to be out back somewhere but I can’t find it.”
The large man’s eyes twinkle with recognition.
The route to the Ewok Village is one I wouldn’t have easily found. I have to make my way through three rooms – the last of which is the main room where the Rugby is being shown which is an impenetrable mass of bodies. After forging my way through I get to the outside entrance. As I step through I see a mass of wooden decking. Multiple levels are all linked up by staircases and on the ground level outside heaters keep huddles of people warm in their wooden alcoves. It is everything I imagined. If I were an Ewok who liked to smoke and drink outdoors, this is where I would definitely hang out.
I see my friends in the corner happily drinking and smoking away.
As I sit down I see a large, Irish man in a green Rugby jersey approach some friends. He is excited and very animated.
“You wouldn’t believe what some guy just said to me!” he exclaims.
I listen intently because it sounds like this guy said something pretty amazing.
“He asks me,” the man pauses to compose himself before delivering the news, “Do you know where the EWOK VILLAGE is?!?!”
The entire group laugh together loudly and as the laugher begins to subside – a good minute in – he catches me in the corner of his eye.
“Yes, thanks! I found it!” I say and raise my pint glass.
My friends look at me and also begin to laugh.
Suddenly I feel small and rather silly.
