The Anna Raccoon blog reflects the contrarian views of Susanne Cameron-Blackie, long nick-named ‘Anna’, ‘La Raccoon’ – or ‘The Landlady’ since the blog is often confusingly referred to as ‘The Raccoon Arms’.
Complaints about the beer, suggestions for future conversations, or scurrilous gossip should be put in the suggestion box – email@example.com – where they will be treated in absolute confidence.
‘The Raccoon Arms’ is an establishment where all points of view are welcome – it is a virtual pub, where the Landlady merely starts the conversation, and then the regulars take over, point out where she has gone wrong, the inevitable spelling mistakes, and generally put the world to rights. They know most subjects a lot better than she does.
I actively encourage opposing views, its called debate, and makes the Pub what it is. Very occasionally, someone stumbles in late at night, having sunk a bottle of cheap vodka before they partake of the ‘free drink on arrival’ and then proceeds to make an incoherent rambling idiot of themselves which adds nothing to the conversation. We lock them in the outside toilet for the night, and in the morning transport them to a hen party in Czechoslovakia where they will feel more at home. We see it as an act of kindness. This is the Pub with No Bores.
The picture you see of Ms Raccoon was taken three years ago; two months before she was diagnosed with cancer – since then she has lost her hair, grown a fresh crop which bears a startling resemblance to a semi-house trained Brillo pad, had so many operations her stomach looks like a noughts and crosses game, been extensively microwaved, and so many injections they have now installed a cross between a ping pong ball and a dairy milking connection…and still nothing has shut her up.
Do bear in mind that she can be a tad bad tempered if you come in whining that some minor blip on your horizon is of earth shattering importance…it is little short of a miracle, thanks to the French National Health Service, that she is still here to annoy you.
If you feel under your bar stool you will still find, not chewing gum, but pieces of the chap who wandered in here on the day she had just been told that the cancer had returned for the third time to opine that ‘he didn’t think the decent people of Leeds would want a new scanner paid for by that disgusting creature Jimmy Savile’.
The ensuing explosion from the Landlady registered as 7.9 on the Richter scale…