Geoffrey entered The Slaughtered Lamb Burger, a new gastropub in Hackney. Everything was as he would expect: faux-vintage books on the shelves (The 1863 Lunar Almanack , Whither the Lycanthrope? and Lupine Anatomy ), microbrewery in the basement, and hostile locals at the bar liveblogging their dinner.
Still, the Londonist had given it five stars and he had taken three buses to get here from Twickenham, so he wasn’t going to leave now. He browsed the menu. After briefly toying with the idea of the Wham Bam Thank You Lamb, he ordered the Lamburgini with extra pickled mouli and a half pint of the oak-aged stout.
Later, as Geoffrey was tweeting his tasting notes (Biscuity mouthfeel, overtones of jasmine and cranberries#sameagainplease), he noticed the barman lurch over to the door and bolt it closed. He looked outside; the sun was just setting. Bit early for a lock-in, he thought. But his anxiety was overcome by the thrilling prospect of being invited into the tribe, of being accepted as one of the beautiful people. He put side his copy of Courier and had a look at the espresso menu.
Perhaps not so beautiful after all, he thought as the barman took his order for a Dancing Goats macchiato. This particular chap was in dire need of a dermatologist and the great hairy, hulking couple at the bar were…well, they were…oh Jesus…
Too late, it all became clear to Geoffrey. The plaid shirts. The small, useless brains. The bad teeth and cavalier attitude to personal hygiene. And most of all, the beards. THE BEARDS. How could he not have realised? As the now-transformed staff and clientele advanced across the room toward him, slavering and howling with a savage bloodlust, it was some small comfort to Geoffrey that now he really would be one of the Hackney tribe.
Robin Lynch 