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.