Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Occasionally I get annoyed in pubs.


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. 

2 comments:

Paul Hart said...

Here here!

Donald Edwards said...

We were contemplating nipping into the Rye last Sunday, I checked their web site only to find a top table box to allow people to make their bookings even easier. On poking our nose into the place it was utterly rammed with kids, like a posh kindergarten serving the parents beer and shite food. It was then I realised that in a sense they're doing us all a favour, essentially establishing voluntary ghettos for the parts of society with which I don't wish to associate of a hungover Sunday..