Listen up, wankers, it's my Chariot of Fire now

Oi oi, whassall this then?

Calm down, kind denizens of Planet Internet. It appears that all the bartenders are flying to Chicago for some kind of circle-jerk and back-patting festivities, and little TMS is all alone, like Amy Winehouse when her drug dealer goes to jail.

So sad, I know.

Well, fear not, because for any of you poor buggers who are stuck here, I bring you my demented TMS takeover in the form of Thunder Matthew's Pub, or TMP for short. Our bitters are cask-conditioned and served in a lukewarm, barely-washed real pint glass (20 oz, none of this lily-livered 16oz or 12 oz Yankee apportionments!). We will bring you fried food, none of which will be particularly appealing to your hot dog appetite: fried gristle, baked tripe, sauteed beef tongue, and a glorious Steak and Kidney pie await your consumption.

I'll bring you the finest in Phil Collins gossip, the latest rumblings about the new Radiohead album, a thrilling biography of the foppish genius of Hugh Grant, and perhaps some Gists of the cricket match between England and South Africa, which is currently so thrilling that I might need to change my male undergarments.

So sit back on that uncomfortable Victorian lounge chair with crown molding, and relax with me and the frumpy goddess herself, Queen Victoria. Enjoy the change while it lasts, because once those Uncle Sam idiots return, it's all back to McDonald's and Bud Light.

Surely you agree that the Pub is more appealing, no?

Oh, and don't worry about dress code. I know we're a spiffy population of tweed wearers and flat cap fans, but as my hero Phil below says: no jacket required.

Get in! Thunder Matthew's Pub is now open!