I was out with the English lads on a pub crawl last Friday evening. It is always good fun and a reasonable bet that the language being spoken is by people from the country that invented it.
The format is simple, good beer, sleazy pubs, no food, loads of piss taking, gaggles of laughter, and the occasional outburst of frenzied smoking.
By mid-evening, I have a half dozen Guinness down my gullet. Good things come to those that wait, and I have been waiting freakin weeks for this night!
I particularly enjoy seeing a mate that I have not caught up with for a couple of years. It is great to see him. In between the schoolboy humour and the serious piss taking, we are engaged in a discussion of the Norwegian v Anglo Saxon cultural cum social anthropology variety, as you do.
We have both lived in Norway for a number of years. Just comparing notes really! You know, how they do things compared to how we do things, blah, blah, blah.
At 23:30, my pal and I are in the middle of an engaging discussion as we head to the entrance of our next honky tonk when I am stopped by the bouncer at the entrance.
“You can’t come, you are too drunk,” says he to me.
“Surely you are kidding,” says me.
He looks at me shaking his head.
“Well, what if I come back in 5 minutes,” asks me?
“I don’t think so,” he responds.
“Look, I understand if you don’t want to let me in for fear of boring the fuck out of your patrons but really,” says me.
He is still shaking his head.
I have had enough. I say farewell to my pal and jump in a taxi.
I have to admit, being refused entry to a bar in Oslo in the middle of a perfectly rational conversation with a friend about Norwegian v Anglo Saxon social anthropology makes a better point than I ever could.