The Nag’s Head wasn’t some posh gastropub, thank goodness. It was your classic, slightly shabby, deeply comforting boozer. Think sticky carpets, worn-out chairs, and an ashtray that never seemed empty. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name—and your latest dodgy scheme.
For the Trotters, it was their second living room. Where else could you hatch a plan to sell beaten-up chandeliers or Turkish hooky gear? Over a pint of lager-top, obviously. Honestly, the pub’s regulars should have gotten a cut of the profits.
Mike the landlord, the unsung hero
Let’s not forget the man pulling the pints: Mike Fisher. He was the gruff, put-upon landlord who had seen it all. And by “it all,” I mean Del trying to pay for a round with a handful of foreign coins. Mike always gave them a look that said, “I’m not paid enough for this.”
But he never kicked them out. He just sighed, poured the drinks, and let the chaos unfold. The man was a saint. Or a glutton for punishment. Possibly both.
