July 15th 2017 11:08 pm

Well another thing,
We went out for a special evening in Barnstaple, that is if there ever has been such a thing. Went to a supposedly up market-ish restaurant and all seemed, as David Bowie would say, Hunky Dory! The cocktail bar was sweltering and full of loud kids shouting and swearing like a sodding end of term prom, so we went into the equally hot and sauna like hotel. A moment later we were back in the restaurant waiting to order. Our waiter was very nice and polite so we ordered from a menu smeared with the shaky fingerprints of disappointment. Fud came and I soon discovered that my chicken and chorithooe salad wasn’t up to par. The poor bird was drier than the Atacama Desert and the chorithooe was saltier than the Dead Sea shoreline. I sent it back and was happy with the complementary Perineum, oops that was meant to read Peroni.
As my wife tucked into her pancake and second-hand chips, now called triple fried chips, I perused the unfolding scene. The function room was filled with loud, drunken girls in pink sashes printed with the words in bold italic, as if I didn’t already know already, Hen Night. The staff left the doors open and all we could hear was profanities and obscenities floating out into the restaurant like forgotten items in a lost property room: we tried to talk but the noise was just toooo much. Another hen party arrived and sat beside us although they were much better behaved. All the girls sat and immediately tugged their phones out of their tights and disappeared into their solitary virtual fantasies. What other places are they going to look at their phones in tonight then?
Now I like people having a good time but having a special evening here was a bloody mistake. Hardly a restaurant more like a sodding chav bar/diner. Too loud, full of over manicured, bleached, orange and This Way Is Essex inspired females. Next time forget trying to go somewhere special, we’ll go to Wetherspoon’s pay a quarter of the price for better food and still get to sit with loud, me me me me me shrieking women. We finally ended up in Claytons with a couple of Old Fashions and chatted to some old friends. It was still loud, still full of girls looking like they were about to lap dance someone to death, but this time with over groomed blokes with tattoos, tight shirts, fake tanz, and trousers. I think they must have pumped iron beyond all practical sense before they came out. Girls apply makeup with plaster trowels the blokes pump their arms to intimidate each other like fiddler crabs on exotic tropical beaches. Yet with all this said all seemed right in the world all seemed right with the balance of the Universe. Now that is a Result I think? That was until I ordered a second round of cocktails and was greeted with a girl whose eyebrows just looked like indefeasibly dark Groucho Marx moustaches I think described using today’s technical vernacular as #eyebrowfail.

A footnote for convoluted syntax used in this rant,
Chorithooe = Chorizo spicy sausage.
Claytons = One of Barnstaple’s upmarket bars. The Glasshouse is OK.
Old Fashioneds = Not us but a cocktail with orange, bitters & Bulleit Bourbon.
Fiddler Crabs = An over groomed lad with pseudo bicep muscles pumped up before leaving home. They usually complete 6 sets of 10 reps on max weight in their bedrooms. Followed by shoehorning themselves into T-shirts two sizes too small. This is used to show off to other lads not women who mostly work in offices. One such Fiddler Crab was a watch repairer!
Hunky Dory = An album by the late David Bowie.
This Way Is Essex = A program on trash TV which inspires the youth of today how to dress, talk and behave but in no way refers to anyone in particular! Faye Coventry!