LONDON -- OK, it's not as if I need a beer every night, but come on. Pubs closing at 11 p.m.? How often do we hear about the charm of British pubs? It's part of the fabric here, as much so as rain. You go to a pub to find conversation, community and a pint, not necessarily in that order.
On Saturday, I took a bus from an archery event to Russell Square and stopped in a pub with a fellow journalist. I was on my second beer when the bartender informed us the pub was closing. It was 10:55. I downed the beer and went looking for a restaurant to have a late dinner. No luck there, either. I ended up eating a flapjack from the hotel gift shop. And I don't even know what a flapjack is.
Thousands and thousands of visitors are in town for the Olympics, and a guy can't get a pint and a bite to eat? Really, London?
The photo here is not of that pub, but it's a typical pub, and my frustration is such that the place falls under the umbrella of collateral damage and innocent victims: