Word: pubs
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Nevertheless, it has begun to dawn on some Britons that the pub is something out of the past in more ways than one. Class-conscious publicans still provide a "saloon" for the gentry and a "public" bar for the lower classes, where a pint is a penny cheaper. Dog-eared signs command: "No Singing," "No Gambling," "No Credit." Listening to phonograph records or sports broadcasts is forbidden. Finally, there is the most exasperating restriction of all-"Time, gentlemen, please," which is the theme song of the most bewildering set of license laws in Christendom...
...that the government "give urgent consideration to this question," Home Secretary Rab Butler was ready to make good a historic promise. Her Majesty's government, he told Parliament, would do something about the nation's crazy-quilt licensing laws at last. As things stand now, a London pub may stay open only nine hours each weekday, and these hours must be divided into 'one period around lunchtime and one period in the evening. But since each borough or local council can fix its own hours, no one can be sure just when "Time, gentlemen" will be called...
...wiped out by a brief atomic war, and five months before the drift of radioactivity is expected to blight the Southern Hemisphere. Outwardly at least, the survivors keep a stiff upper lip about what is going to happen. They go to work in the morning, beach in the afternoon, pub at night. Soon, the drinking begins to get a bit heavier, the sex a bit out of hand...
From temperance club to neighborhood pub, these heart-searing words have echoed in countless performances since they were put down more than a century ago by an actor named William Sedley and picked up by P. T. Barnum, first big producer of The Drunkard, or The Fallen Saved. Last week The Drunkard's lachrymose prose reverberated no more in Los Angeles, where the show was revived in 1933 at the small, stucco Theatre Mart and reeled on for the longest run in U.S. theatrical history: 9,477 performances. The play was a victim of exhaustion and the local fire...
Ireland's tosspot Playwright-Autobiog-rapher Brendan Behan, a portly 36, tippy-toed back into London, whose citizens he treated last July to the spectacle of one of the most monumental binges of modern times. Proudly proclaimed Wife Beatrice, who did not accompany Behan on his summer pub safari: "He's been off the gargle for a week or two. He's been very good." In a Piccadilly bar, Behan hoisted just one wee nip and bellowed: "To success!" Clinking glasses with him, Beatrice responded: "Success to abstinence!" Then Behan lumbered off to the theater to catch...