We got a drink, didn't we?

Marwood:
[voiceover]
If The Crow and Crown ever had life it was dead now. It was like walking into a lung. A self-sustained nicotine-yellow and fly-blown lung. Its landlord was a retired alcoholic with military pretensions and a complexion like the inside of a teapot. By the time the doors opened he was arseholed on rum and got progressively more arseholed until he could take no more and fell over at about 12 o'clock. [the drunken, elderly pub landlord opens the till and it hits it him the chest and he almost falls down] General:
Thought I was going for a minute. But no man's put me down yet. Have you had any training in the martial arts? Withnail:
Yes, as a matter of fact I have. Before I became a journalist I was in the Territorials. General:
Do you know, when you first came in here I knew you were a services man. You can never, never disguise it. Withnail:
What were you in? General:
Tanks. Afrika Korps. A little before your time. Don't suppose you've engaged, have you? Withnail:
Ireland. General:
Oooh, a crack at the Mick? Withnail:
We'll have another pair of large scotches. General:
These shall be my pleasure. [he pours their drinks] General:
What are you doing up here, then? Withnail:
We're doing a feature for Country Life. Survey of rural types. You know, farmers, travelling tinkers, milkmen, that sort of thing. General:
Have you met Jake? Poacher. Works the lake, but keep it under your hat, hm? [they go and sit down at a table with their drinks] Marwood:
What's all this army bollocks? Withnail:
We got a drink, didn't we?