The same as a week in Ibiza?

A group of drinkers who spent three days snowed in at a Yorkshire pub are gamely pretending they loved it. They didn’t and nor would you:

Day one, snow
It is intrinsically exciting to look at heavy snowfall through windows while inside and warm. Add that to the adrenaline rush of getting pissed and the day flies by. It’s early evening and dark before you know it.

Day one, evening, snow
Except now you can’t see the snow. And you’ve got that queasy day-drunk feeling in your guts and while you were gazing out of windows the other patrons secured the best beds, couches and patches of floor. Continue to order pints in lieu of genuine merriment.

Day two, snow
Wake hungover and cold. The landlord’s doing cooked breakfasts and your stomach’s lurching, and he’s charging £22.80 for them which makes you heave. And full price for drinks? Three days in a Yorkshire pub’s going to cost you the same as a week in Ibiza!

Day two, afternoon, snow
After a morning of sulky abstinence you hit the booze and go out to make a snowman, have a snowball fight, and urinate your initials into a snowdrift. All tremendous fun until you return indoors, panting and red-faced, and realise your clothes are soaking and you didn’t bring any spares because you were only coming to the pub.

Day two, evening, snow
Right. At this stage you’re trapped in a building with people you’d rather not be trapped with and all entertainment options have been exhausted. The thought of a pint makes you ill, but you can’t even have a Coke without it costing £2.80. Settle to getting shitfaced but grimly, as Captain Oates might have done.

Day three, more fucking snow
Still? Still snowing? Are they taking the piss? When you’ve woken up from a nightmare about The Shining, shivering under a damp coat, to the sound of the landlord taking a plunger to the toilets? You step outside into the snow to vomit copiously into it. This won’t make the regional news.

Day three, escape
The roads are cleared. The media arrives to cover the wonderful time you’re having. You pay a photographer £100 for a lift back to civilisation. It’s small change compared to the £600 you’ve spent locked in this fucking pub. Make it home. Vow never to enter a pub again. Go that night, to brag about how great it was.

The Daily Mash

Of course.

[The "real" story]