Hell hath no fury like that of a woman
scorned. Fuck that, the Internet has no bitchiness like that of a foodie
annoyed.
I’ve lost track of the number of posts I’ve
read bemoaning the proliferation of no booking dining places. Yep, people work
through all the various issues in a nice orderly fashion, but really what lies
sleeping beneath is this inherent inchoate scream of rage; how dare these
restaurants open with a business model that refuses to pander to my exacting
diary management requirements. Well quite.
So I’m going to whinge about something
completely different. Pubs. Pubs that take fucking table bookings.
It’s a Sunday morning, I’m hung over and in
need of beer and Sunday paper time. I make my way to the nearest decent
establishment in the hope of installing myself in a corner and getting stuck
into a shit load of beer, crisps and hopefully gravy drenched plates of meaty
goodness.
But I can’t, every fucking table is taken.
Sorry, when I say taken what I actually mean is that A4 sheets of paper have
proliferated themselves across the room announcing each and every fucking
table’s booking. It’s like some socially needy cuntwit has sprayed his fetid
cum all over the fucking pub instead of aiming it into his bitching fucking
dominatrix of a wife in the hope of propagating their lineage (Mummy and Daddy
will be so happy).
Yep like festering lumps of Lordship lane
feta (ex public school cum harvested, then acidulated with the angry right wing
spittle of the ugg booted bitches that maneuver their 4x4 buggies in and out of
the coffee cup strewn tables before being matured in the barrel of wank where
they store their justification for ruining everything good about their newly
picked boroughs) decorate each and every table. Their cheesy message letting
any passers by know of their lack of welcome. FUCK OFF and choose somewhere
else, the wife and I (if you’re lucky our loin spawn too) will be occupying
this space in our own special way. Please feel free to cock the fuck off while
we sit and pontificate on our own glorious worthiness.
Don’t book tables in pubs. It marks you out
as a twat.
