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.
