The official Arena Tavern website

Dear 'Mr TicklePike (a strange hobby but perfectly legal, our researcher assures us).

Upon paddling the net (not quite a surfer yet), I stumbled, as is my wont, upon the Arena Tavern website. I feel I must object quite vehemently to the photograph of an erstwhile employee. A visual deterrent such as this is quite unnecessary and should at least be preceded by a health warning for breast feeding mothers.

The present barstaff, although beyond the reach of mere mortals, are an exquisite collection of fluffy bunnies and we want to protect and pamper them. It is most disappointing not to see more on this site of Kinky Kim. Enticing, Ema. Saucy Sue and Luscious Lisa. They are not only the epitome of efficiency but a delight to both the eye and indeed the entire olfactory system. Grrr!

A further criticism I am obliged to voice is the website's description of the Tav (as it is affectionately known to those with discerning hostelry loyalty). No mention is made of the intricate and ecologically balanced demography of this establishment. The natural grouping of kind with kind in your little microcosm is a wonder to behold and the general consensus of opinion is that your website should include a meticulously drawn plan of each unique habitat. Without this, the uninitiated are channelled to the second table from the door for safe observation until he/she identifies his/her base camp. Having every confidence that you will be quite au fait with the standard floor plan. I simply wish to assist you to expedite this with the following details.

Upon entering - round table on your right in the window bay. This is reserved for strangely shaped people crammed into leggings who insist on smuggling in chips and curry sauce and depositing the wrappers (unscrunched) on the floor until ousted by very large bikers who really own Proper bikes, not just leather jackets. You can always tell, because they're the ones wearing a scruffy strip of 'was white once' linen as a scarf. To your left, a legend in its own lunchtime, we have the Tav's greatest tourist attraction. Special Needs Corner, an education in itself. Here we can eavesdrop upon such pearls of wisdom as: "Giz me John Smiths or the puppy dies!" and "What's green and gets me pissed?....Me giro".

A standard Tav IQ test is required for a residency permit.
Q) Is your head on straight?
A) Yes, I'm drooling from both corners of my mouth

Q) What is the capital of Canada?
A) Kim's got a nice bum!

Both answers correct and you're in with life membership, but woe betide that you ever reveal the ability to count higher than the ape men of the Indus for you will be jettisoned like the nomadic Daniel to wander from camp to camp, facing rejection until re-accepted into SNC because they only have seven second memory retention. A brief sortie into Preacher's Corner (last stool, top of bar in fact only stool, top of bar - what does that tell you?) and we have, whether we want it or not, the most skilled conversationalist of all. Skip. No soapbox is required, Ken always brings his own. This man is an expert on everything, a walking A-Z of erudition...and what a fanny-magnet: Skip has to beat off the birds with a shitty stick!

Moving down the bar, Table 2 , occupied at various times by IPA Ray and his boring books with no- pictures (so, not The Highway Code, eh Daniel! Loads of pictures in that....and diagrams!) When not in residence, his table may be usurped by any combination of pretenders...Student Grant and his bursars, or occasionally two aran sweaters on Nethergate (that's like Hamsters on Speed but with a touch more tradition). The conversation flits from C.A.M.R.A. to Steeleye Span. The aran sweaters (leather elbow patches optional) enthuse about how good the Umbel Ale is whilst a tweed jacket pens a verse or two about how much better the barrel before was.

And so we leave the relative safety of the top end (known to regulars as the top end) and enter the bottom end (as yet unnamed). Proof of IQ is required immediately as we draw level with the bar flap for this is Bigot's Corner. Have your Smart card ready, sharpen your wit, be a clever Trevor, for you have entered the Boyzone. Smoke a pipe, use a computer, DON'T use a mobile. You girlies are welcome here too as long as you don't try anything too testing. Pop your finger in your cheek, look puzzled and giggle, tell us what you know about fluffy kittens and embroidery, but not for too long please. Don't try to be clever about driving, computers, golf, real ale or anything else your gender debars you from understanding and you'll be fine (not to mention decorative!) Bonus points if you check your make up in the hot nuts machine whilst forgetting how to pronounce your own name.

Move on quickly (if endowed with a uterus). As the pungent scent of testosterone ebbs away, we approach the Stapletons Table. This is a mysterious social melange of (as goes without saving) the Stapletons boys, the football team, and Mr Mobile himself, di Maio and co, sprawling due to copious numbers, down the steps and onto two tables below. Well, where does one begin? To the untrained ear, the hubbub emanating from this mini-metropolis is indecipherable but patience and the discovery of the Rosetta Stone has aided professional linguists in their quest to delve deeper into their complex social structure. Primary rule - speak louder than everyone else. If that fails, change the ring on your phone to the Superman theme. Entry to this zone requires no IQ test assuming that you made it intact and un-ridiculed past Bigot's Corner. One simply needs to be conversant in the main topics for each sector.

STAPLETONS - "Aren't kebabs horrible when you're sober! Shall we try Chinese tomorrow? Nah. wouldn't work. It's great cold as a hangover cure.l can get Goodyears at cost. Piss off. You load them out by the fence and nick them later. Still going combat. Fitzy? Yeah. underpants are sick!"

FOOTBALL TEAM - "Man of the match....Pint of Coke.. Listen it's not my fault. you know I did my cartilage...kit was still wet too....oh. sod it .I'm going down the .Squirrel....Nice bum. Kim!"

DI MAIO & CO - "BUD...TOTNAM...MORE BUD....My mobile's smaller than yours...yeah well I've got more ring options...ooh. I've got a text message...Let's phone the bar again...May I speak to Mike Hunt?. Amanda Huggankiss?.Seymour Butts?.Peter File? Hugh Jass?...Listen I've got the Superman theme...Doesn't Sue look like Walshy Boy!" Make your way now to the last two tables. It's compulsory to shake Skinny Mark awake as you pass or at least check for a pulse/Beri Beri. By the back door/escape hatch the table is reserved for young stuff. You are now approaching Foetus Corner. Prerequisites are a dodgy crumpled photocopy of big brother's birth certificate, handing over exact change before ordering a drink, bringing a tall lad with a flimsy goatee to go up to the bar and the sense to make a sharp exit when the ID Gestapo laugh at your feeble attempt to speak in a deep Voice. Female members of this group be warned - you WILL be curb crawled if you loiter too long by Preacher's Corner on your way in...now is that really worth an Archers and lemonade?

Finally, and finally is the appropriate term, there only remains Loiterer's Corner here you may hold erudite conversations ranging, from politics to the art world and read a paper with no tits in it. An intellectual oasis! Intelligence and stamina is required; the former to understand this evening's debate, the latter because this lot are here for the duration. As the barstaff's dulcet tones echo through the air, politely requesting that we vacate, it is compulsory to hug two inches of IPA until 11.45 (11.30 on Sundays).

As a postscript. I must pay a passing tribute to the "no fixed abode" regulars to be found spaced at regular intervals along the bar. Vinoy ( his own office but no permanent table). Yes Dave. ("Who was the original drummer in...l've started so I'll finish...eventually). John who sidles in two minutes before the last bell and orders six pints of IPA and three JDs.The last in, first out theory definitely does not apply to him. Little Nick (mind your head on the beams), a delight to behold as he attempts to barter two fags and a Ghost House flyer for the extra 10 p for a pint, and God forfend that we should omit the Cox boys - Nick and his teen groupies. Mick with his oh so sad nicknames for barmaids, and Scary Terry.

In conclusion. your website invites the reader to offer suggestions to you as proprietor. Mine would be drop in sometime, try an hour behind the bar. our friendly staff will show you how (the stick things bend and beer comes out- it's that easy!) Then go back, reread your website and try and justify a dodgy photo of Roy, some total pish about the resident jazz band and NO F**KIN' STELLA!

Does it need an update or what!!!!!''!!!