For the most part. I asked where the gents’ was and got a frown. “The loo.”
Another frown and a cursory shake of the head, “sorry?”
“The head. The crapper. The lav? Pissoir? Restroom?”
He shook his lapel pinched between his thumb and forefinger, “a uniform?” How bad is may English, I thought.
“Washroom? Potty? W.C.? The can?”
“Can I help?” one of his colleagues offered.
“I want to change into these dry clothes,” I said holding up my backpack. “Is there a bathroom?” They both pointed to the Smallest Room In The House. At last.
In my big boy clothes, I returned and ordered an Elvis Juice because of the grapefruit infusion. Had I noticed it was a Brew Dog, I would have gotten anything else but instead I fucked myself out of £5.50. And, it isn’t even a full measure; one of the bartenders lied to another customer by saying that they aren’t allowed to sell it as a pint because it is so high in alcohol but at 6.5% it isn’t even 2/3 the volatility of some ciders I regularly quaff.
But, this isn’t a real pub. It is a yuppie impression of a real pub despite the enormous dog. They have the old school hooks mounted under the bar but they seem to be for show. This style is known as the Belligerent Drunken Octopus Picks A Fight, but if it was meant to carry a load the screws (eyes) would be tightened to the bar.
If you’ve just hit the lottery, here’s a map. The shitter is through a door on the far north wall.