Drinking with the Greats

Yes, if you could put up with him talking about himself or the empire all night. Which we could, but only once – and mainly for the pints of Champagne.

A tentative yes from us: good for quizzes as he is the answer to quite a lot of questions.

If you like sauvignon blanc and don’t mind her crying, sure thing. But just don’t get in her Uber afterwards.

Beware of anyone in the pub who begins a sentence: ‘I’ve got this theory, right, about monkeys’.

Likely to whine about how many sexually transmitted diseases he has after a few drinks, then start riffing with some truly baffling innuendo. He’d get bard.

We don’t know, have you ever had a good pint with a mathematician?

Would declare that she has the ‘body of a weak and feeble woman’ then down a pint of Carling to prove she could, and then spew chunks over the table.

Speaking as a publication that is one-fifth Scouse, absolutely categorically not.

We will never decry the forces of rum, sodomy and the lash, so yes.

Pretty much history’s greatest pint-antagonist, in both vibes and deeds.

Would hector the barmaid for the Guinness not being cold enough, then nudge you in the side to get you to laugh. Steer clear.

‘You know that nobody drinks Foster’s in Australia, right?’ Noooope.

Not unless you can pull off a half-decent bridge knot at a moment’s notice and enjoy referring to an evening out as a ‘jamboree’. Would almost certainly wear shorts and steer clear of anything stronger than a glass of dandelion and burdock.

An austere warlock with chronic acid reflux is not someone you want for a ten-pint session.

Would manipulate coasters, salt-shakers and sachets to show artillery positions during the siege of Lisbon, before skedaddling for a night of philandery. It’s a yes.

We’re not even going to dignify this with a response.

Forget the question here, how did he get on to this list?

Pre-widowing, yes; post-widowing, no.

Yes, but if you’d already had a pint with Lennon, would insist that he did it first.

There is actually very little evidence to guide us either way on this, so we’re just going to say that Scotsmen by and large are good to drink with. Penicillit in for a post-work scoop.

First of all, fair play for the whole Enigma code thing. Secondly, no. He helped to sink a lot of U boats, but we won’t be helping him to sink his Peroni.

Hell yeah, nothing cooler than someone who spends all day blasting lightning.

It would be an honour to share three sacks of mead and attempt to reclaim pockets of Shropshire on horseback.

Her sister is much, much, much better value.  And sod it, so was her husband.

Argh. Sorry, no.

For a lazy afternoon sharing a ploughman’s and discussing the finer points of the Book of Job, probably not half bad.

No – mainly because she’s from Manchester.

As the pint is poured he says, ‘I like a good bit of head,’ he says, winking at the barmaid – who, by coincidence, was born the day he took the free kick against Greece.

If Paine was alive today, he’d be a young British freelance journalist obsessed with the word rates of American publications, so the answer is: no.

Not a big drinker, as it turns out. Although he was from Hull, a city with fine pubs indeed.

100% percent yes, yes, yes and yes again. Come prepared with red peppers and milk.

Brown ale and treachery? Sign us up, but beware the marching powder plot.

More into brandy and lukewarm servings of coronation chicken than six gleaming pints of Kronenburg.

A hard drinker, for sure; he drinks the right drinks but in the wrong order though, so a reluctant no.

Kinda? Maybe more of a couple of pints and walk round Victoria Park on a drop or two of magic mushroom oil – big into festivals come summertime.

An irascible bloke from Buckinghamshire who’s achieved unwarranted fame in the world’s most boring sport. A hard no.

Imagine the ‘funny how?’ scene with Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, but now in Hampton Court Palace. Not fun at all. No.

Probably the original Real Ale Twat, with a list of opinions on pubs and pub vibes that would bore you sober. A pass from us.

Has a game called ‘Whittle it down’ where he necks his pint and belches, claiming the procedure gave him the idea for what he calls ‘my sucky blowy baby’. Drinks for free in Leamington Spa, which may or may not be a bonus.

A man for all seasons, but a prick when he’s got a few jars on him.

Among his myriad achievements, he gave way to one of the worst pubs in London: The Tiger, in Camberwell, which is an automatic disqualifier.

Bang in the door at 7 o’clock, last gulp of Fuddy Duck real ale dispatched at 7.59, out the door at 8 on the dot. So not really enjoyable, no.

Yup, as long as you keep him away from the jukebox, and any young woman with a fake id. Insists on referring to ginger ale as ‘The Top of the Pops.’

Crotchety Scot who likes drinking in pubs with five blaring flatscreens playing Gillette Soccer Saturday on repeat. We will leave him be.

A spirited yes, anyone with eyebrows like that knows their way around a pint of bitter or twelve. You might puke your guts up, but that’s what doctors are for.

If you think a fun evening ends with you being chained to a radiator, then yes, be our guest.

Provided the pub had wheelchair access, no German beers on tap, and you’re very right-wing. Which some of you are! It’s okay. No one needs to know.

Impossible to divorce Wallace from the image of Antipodean psycho Mel Gibson, so the answer is no.

Regrettably, probably a bit of a pub legend and decent company to boot, in the manner that raffish wrong’uns are wont to be.

Did you know that John Wesley has the most blue plaques of any British person in history? But as far as we know, none of these are in the pub, so we are going to have to say: no.

You would think that spending a night with Britain’s Biggest Legends at the round table would be an all-timer, but the evening would be eleven men in chainmail bitching about Lancelot.

Noted fan of hanging with the lads, so it’s a yes from us. And very useful to have her for the hangover, too.

Are you a 14-year-old Bedouin peasant boy? No? Don’t risk it, anyway.

Come for the prayer recitations, stay for the paranoia about the bbc helicoptering over his house. We won’t make any more jokes, he’s very litigious, but no.

Would probably spend his whole time looking at his phone. He’d probably fit right in with the young ones these days! Right?

And another one down and another one down, another one bites the dust,’ he sings, smashing gins before offering his wallet round the pub. Fantastic. Would bring dwarves and Kenny Everett.

How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria? Send her to a different pub and go somewhere else.

He won’t be ordering any food: to paraphrase Russell Brand, he’s been dining out off I Don’t Like Mondays for 40 years.

More suited to sips of rationed brandy and moonshine brewed with trench foot ointment. It’s a no.

All he’d want to do is to talk about his serious music but would end up punching a fellow customer after he’s asked to play ‘that one off of Last Night of the Proms’ for the 48th time. Avoid.

Yes. The nation’s nan spent most of the 20th century in a fug of cigarettes and gin, but the evening will end with Backstairs Billy holding your head above the cistern.

Husky anecdotes about Buddhist retreats, supercars and boasts about bedding Madonna – it’s a no.

Sure, though after three drinks starts talking about population control.

All fun and games until he’s tanked up and walks past a Post Office on his way home. Decline, just to avoid the eventual hanging you’d receive.

Another engineer, he also invented a ‘cucumber straightening device’. No; another freak.

The evening will end with him waving his Little Tramp around, if you’re into that sort of thing – although it’ll redefine what you understood to be ‘slapstick’.

The embodiment of Beezlebub; a demon who somehow bested the gates of Hell to slither, unrepentant, into our hearts and minds and history; all of human badness, fault and avarice made grinning flesh and giggle; a curse we all must bear for sharing the same biological designation as he. It’s a no.

Will bore on about the beer being better in Bruges.

Yeah go on, but you’ll wake up with your reputation unfairly soiled and feeling like you’ve been entombed in concrete for 500 odd years.

She texts beforehand saying she wants to talk about one thing, and one thing only. You’d like to think it will be one of her previous obsessions, like how wizards take shits, or if Hagrid is pansexual. Sadly, you know what that topic will be. No.

Would probably be an investor in Brewdog, so no.

Yes, but don’t leave any valuables alone with him.

She would spend the whole evening texting her sister before demanding that you pay for her curricle home. Not a vibe.

Second only to Old Ironsides in ideological opposition to an honest time in the pub. A conclusive no.

The Beast himself? Unquestionably, yes, although we would not be keen to keep meeting, lest we soon find ourselves in a field in Kent chopping up a goat.

Would alternate between whisky and Castlemaine, on account of his dual heritage. A pass from us.

Until he starts talking about ufos, you should be okay.

A pint of waste-water tapped from the drains of a regional football ground would be far, far more enjoyable.

We’ll buck a trend by saying, yes, so long as he’s nowhere near a camera, placard, Pope, senator, reflective surface or Gerry Adams.

A lifetime controversialist who prides himself on being as viscerally unpleasant as humanly possible? Yeah ok, but just one.

Everyone in the pub would laugh at you as he fiddles with his mask and reapplies his hand gel every 30 seconds.

Good honest fun at first, but then starts speaking in Welsh after three pints, then after six pints brings a tray of tequilas to the table, and from there on in refers to the barman as the ‘minister for munitions’. Which is not that funny, so no.

Given that Captain Oates chose a blistering death by the elements on the Antarctic Ice Shelf over making small talk with him, the answer is definitely no.

The patron saint of pub nutters, so probably good value for a little bit.

Mathematician again, so no, plus there’s no way you could make a computer in the 1800s, so he’s talking out his arse.

Hard yes: you’ll have some ‘Banterbury Tales’ after seven pints with Big Geoff.

Renowned arsehole, despised by similar renowned arseholes who were united in their recognition of him as a renowned arsehole. We’ll pass.

Anyone that religiously committed to going really, really, really fast would probably be quite intense company, so it’s a pass from us.

No– he’d just bawl his eyes out about how his psychotic kids don’t love him and how he ‘accidentally’ killed his best (read: only) mate.

Says here, on Wikipedia where we’re having to check, that he was a ‘scientist responsible for the classical theory of electromagnetic radiation’, which is all well and good, but not pint-worthy.

 ‘Stout barkeep – wouldest thou fill mine horn with thine amber gold?’ No.

Well you wouldn’t be short of ciggies, crisps or tales from the lost city of El Dorado.

Yes, unless you are Welsh, Scottish or Jewish. In which case, he’d glass you.

Yes, but the evening will descend into Jägerbombs (haha).

Declaimed poetry, Hollywood anecdotes, lashings of whisky and jokes – you have the best evening of your life until Elizabeth Taylor bursts into tears.

A fun time, yes, until he starts tearfully expressing the pain of denouncing his family title.

Absolutely not. Wouldn’t shut up with stories about his time in Africa and his very dubious pal, Henry Morton Stanley.

The last interesting thing he did was that weird appearance during the Olympic opening ceremony where he just sat at his little computer in the middle of a dance troupe. At least the Queen jumped out of that plane. No, thank you.

Owing to the vicissitudes of the Edwardian era, the answer is: no.

You’d think it would be all ‘Once more unto the pints, dear friends’ but no: it would be an evening of tedious piety and egregious self-aggrandisement. Falstaff would be a right laugh though, but is, sadly, a fictional character.