PUB REVIEW: ALAN BRECK

by Dave Hynes

EDINBURGH

Twat meets cunt in an awesome way in the ultimate twatcunt collection ever. The greatest hits must include that classic by Allen Breck, Oh how woeful is my Pub. Never a truer lyric has been spat down or hollered since this is a truly woeful pub. Its such a shithole it has repelled any possible orthodox criticism based on conventions like safety, prettiness and style as far too obviously crude. When places like Allen Breck and the Marksman are this bad, to not find the positive is to not find the soul- thank goodness I’m home, this is a dive deserving of the title. And guess what me droogs? As always, one of the friendliest places on earth.

Pubs are an analogy of life. When they have nothing they look for the optimistic and when they seemingly have everything they act like twats. Allen Breck has nothing, but it does have a bit of character. A lonely bandit machine is about the only distinguishing feature of this barren landscape, other than a bar- which is probably to be expected. Looks like a renovated bingo hall without the renovation or the prospect of group activity. In Allen Breck, even just two unfortunate customers seems deemed to be a crowd and the landlord puts on a mighty display of hearty welcoming and invites you into a consensual debate about contemporary topics such as the meaning of life. These debates with customers are always consensual because he has the gleam of madness in his eye and when I asked for a Guinness he turned round, pants by his ankles and beer glass around his cock, and decried ‘ I just invented Frankenstein’. Good on you son, somebody had to.

Allen Breck is, of course, one to be avoided like the plague but this may be a double-edged sword. Like the old bubonic bacteria it’s just a wee bit contagious. There is a certain charm about the fact it’s so unassuming, understated ( there’s nothing to state really) and..erm charming. Going in Allen Breck can make you break out in a sweat and could lead to an outbreak if kept unchecked. It seems to have a healthy-ish loyalty of rank and file customers and its proximity to Leith Links means you get to see some of the rejects from Britain’s Got Prostitutes and Wankers and the also-rans from Nob Academy walking around in cheery desolation.

This is probably where the boys drafted up for the Somme used to drink and it was probably good practice for the atmosphere of death. But that’s what Allen Breck is, a relic from an increasingly forgotten age- long may you be an eyesore, long may you be that even more coveted award than a good pub, that rarest of beats, a likeable completely shit pub. Ignorance is bliss, and the fuckers in here don’t even know where Princes St is.