Herr Professor Thorolfsson strides into the Red Boar, nicking its teeth with his cane as he strolls down the gullet, down into the depths of its maw.

He taps his way up to what turns out to be the bar, filled with lusty Germanic and Viking and Nordic types, all quaffing liquids that smelt most strangely of hops and barley. He dropped his monocle on the counter, and looked towards the barkeep with his one good eye.

"Perhaps, a frothy pint of whatever smells most strangely of hops and barley," he requested.

Which forthwith appeared, in exchange for a little metal he found somewhere on his person, tucked into a pocket replete with well-seasoned lint.

The oompah music he could do without, and so with no further ado, other than to reclaim his monocle, he strode over and unplugged the massive mechanical object that was juking it out.

"Where is Schubert when one needs him?" he inquired of the thickening air, expecting no answer, and indeed, receiving none.

There was some speechifying going on, and Herr Professor listened as one bemused, but perhaps, he realized, more of the frothy pint that smelt most strangely of hops and barley would be in order.

A few more of these - and here he was given to passing off his coat buttons as coins before he was done - and he barely remembered having passed into the Red Boar.

However the next day, he would be well-aware that he'd passed OUT at the Red Boar, when time came for the sweeps to pull up the bench he'd fallen asleep under.