Let's get stereotypical
Bruce would never claim to be a proficient boy scout, let alone a man in the Bear Grylls / Ray Mears mould, but he has some idea of how to get a fire going.
To fit easy stereotypes, it’s a skill which all men should possess and one – like driving, map-reading and urinal-using – which women will never understand.
So, there they were, just past 11pm on a wet, chilly Friday night, being kept warm by the roaring beast Bruce had lovingly tended for the past hour in the Back Bar, off the Windsor end of Chapel Street. It looked magnificent and had attracted complimentary noises from the smartly attired gents in the corner, but the logs needed turning.
“Oi! No! No! No!” came the cry. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The manageress was on the warpath.
“Tending the fire,” said Bruce. “It needs a poke.”
“Get out of there,” she said. “You’re not allowed to do that.”
Elbowing Bruce and his assistant to one side, she grabbed the tongs and, well, it pains me to say this, but she, yep, she destroyed the fire with a couple of ill-judged thrusts.
Gone was the pyramid structure that had been allowing air below the logs.
Down went the logs to lay flat on top of the previously healthy bed of embers.
Away went any chance of heat.
Shortly afterwards a couple dressed like characters from a particularly amusing game of Misfits walked in to warm their cockles.
“The fire’s not very warm,” said Misfit #1.
“No,” said Bruce indignantly. “It’s not.”
Still, the mardy manageress presides over a nice enough bar.
Vintage armchairs, tactile wallpaper, velvet flashes and chandeliers make up the decor, with a good cocktail list, a Chapel Street clientele that for the most part wouldn’t put you off returning to Chapel Street, bearable music and – apart from the corked first glass – nice enough red wine to send Bruce home merry.
Fran attempts to disprove Olivia Newton John's badly paraphrased theory
