Night on the town
Well, they've been known to work better.
Five minutes before the taxi arrived, I nicked the side of my nose shaving; my god - for a tiny cut, that bastard sure can bleed. An hour and a half later I was still holding bloody tissues to the side of my face. Very welcoming I'm sure. Looked as if the Number Two bar had experienced a drunken tosser event minutes before I arrived, the barman was jittery and the atmosphere a little loaded. As it happened, the people I was meant to be meeting up with didn't show up, so I did a quick wander around the secondary meetup, and then the tertiary. Unknown to me, they'd decided to go somewhere else entirely and didn't have my mobile number. Nice one. Do I smell? Am I really that bad company?
Well, made the mistake of having a drink at the last spot I tried, O'Neill's, the worst kind of plastic paddy bar. It's not even a pub, it's just a conduit for relieving punters of their money at the highest possible rates for the least possible comfort, service and quality. Guinness Extra cold? No thanks, I'll have normal. The only reason to chill a drink is so that you can't actually taste what's in it. Call me old fashioned, but I'd rather taste what I've paid for. Not as if there's any need to chill a drink for refreshment purposes on the East coast of England. Mint Julip's on the veranda served to you by a servile coloured man, on windblown Skeggy seafront in a typical summer force 8, anyone? Didn't think so. The people inside the bar were pissed, rank and depressing. I hated it. Got accosted by a dreadful drunken coddette at one point...
"SMIIIIIIIIIIIIILE!!!!! Ya' not gonna be here forever!!!!!!!!!".
"Indeed I won't. I intend to leave at the end of what they jokingly call my pint and not return"
It's difficult to find words to express how much I loathe this bar and resent the half hour of my life, which I won't get back that it's taken. If you're in a group it's expensive, noisy, unhygenic and not very good. If you're running solo as I was, then it's purgatory. Mind you, txt messages received would appear to indicate that FLoH whom I've not heard from for a while was enjoying her Southern pub experience on the outskirts of London just as much as I was up north. That sort of place I also know only too well, and wouldn't touch with a fifteen foot shitty stick, in case the scumbags within steal it. Oh to have spent the day and night in a more civilised place.
On an unrelated note, it would appear that Amba, my boy Gizmo's half brother who resides down south with my mother is finally to lose his gonads. The old's have displayed similar reluctance to have their boy done as I did with mine, except that mine was more male empathy (how would I like compulsory knacker knackering just as I'm working out what they're for), where as they're more motivated by environmental tree hugging'ness, and a reluctance to interfere with his natural development. Until he started seriously kicking the crap out of a smaller tomcat that's made the mistake of wandering into the street, and spraying on everything that moves, and also that doesn't move including the neighbours vent to their ventilation system, stinking out the whole house. I finally agreed to have Giz done a year or so back after his trips out became extended, and the signs of serious Tom'ness were sighted approaching in the distance; plus some serious gentle pressure from the Minister for Good Sense, FLoH , resulted in a quick trip to the vets and him having a little bit of personality adjustment done. Resulted in a much nicer cat. As much as I hate to say I told you so, muvver... I did, repeatedly !
Five minutes before the taxi arrived, I nicked the side of my nose shaving; my god - for a tiny cut, that bastard sure can bleed. An hour and a half later I was still holding bloody tissues to the side of my face. Very welcoming I'm sure. Looked as if the Number Two bar had experienced a drunken tosser event minutes before I arrived, the barman was jittery and the atmosphere a little loaded. As it happened, the people I was meant to be meeting up with didn't show up, so I did a quick wander around the secondary meetup, and then the tertiary. Unknown to me, they'd decided to go somewhere else entirely and didn't have my mobile number. Nice one. Do I smell? Am I really that bad company?
Well, made the mistake of having a drink at the last spot I tried, O'Neill's, the worst kind of plastic paddy bar. It's not even a pub, it's just a conduit for relieving punters of their money at the highest possible rates for the least possible comfort, service and quality. Guinness Extra cold? No thanks, I'll have normal. The only reason to chill a drink is so that you can't actually taste what's in it. Call me old fashioned, but I'd rather taste what I've paid for. Not as if there's any need to chill a drink for refreshment purposes on the East coast of England. Mint Julip's on the veranda served to you by a servile coloured man, on windblown Skeggy seafront in a typical summer force 8, anyone? Didn't think so. The people inside the bar were pissed, rank and depressing. I hated it. Got accosted by a dreadful drunken coddette at one point...
"SMIIIIIIIIIIIIILE!!!!! Ya' not gonna be here forever!!!!!!!!!".
"Indeed I won't. I intend to leave at the end of what they jokingly call my pint and not return"
It's difficult to find words to express how much I loathe this bar and resent the half hour of my life, which I won't get back that it's taken. If you're in a group it's expensive, noisy, unhygenic and not very good. If you're running solo as I was, then it's purgatory. Mind you, txt messages received would appear to indicate that FLoH whom I've not heard from for a while was enjoying her Southern pub experience on the outskirts of London just as much as I was up north. That sort of place I also know only too well, and wouldn't touch with a fifteen foot shitty stick, in case the scumbags within steal it. Oh to have spent the day and night in a more civilised place.
On an unrelated note, it would appear that Amba, my boy Gizmo's half brother who resides down south with my mother is finally to lose his gonads. The old's have displayed similar reluctance to have their boy done as I did with mine, except that mine was more male empathy (how would I like compulsory knacker knackering just as I'm working out what they're for), where as they're more motivated by environmental tree hugging'ness, and a reluctance to interfere with his natural development. Until he started seriously kicking the crap out of a smaller tomcat that's made the mistake of wandering into the street, and spraying on everything that moves, and also that doesn't move including the neighbours vent to their ventilation system, stinking out the whole house. I finally agreed to have Giz done a year or so back after his trips out became extended, and the signs of serious Tom'ness were sighted approaching in the distance; plus some serious gentle pressure from the Minister for Good Sense, FLoH , resulted in a quick trip to the vets and him having a little bit of personality adjustment done. Resulted in a much nicer cat. As much as I hate to say I told you so, muvver... I did, repeatedly !
posted by Fred the Singing Bandit at 9:35 am
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