Friday, 15 April 2011
PAST LIFE: Aqua monarch.
REASON FOR VAGABONDERY: Controversially ousted from his underwater kingdom amid accusations of sexual relations with Ariel, a mermaid minor. Additional allegations including racism towards various members of the ocean public, including a leading civil servant, Sebastian, the Jamaican lobster - led to his demise.
HOBBIES: Catching pigeons for food, keeping his Big Issues dry, trying to contact estranged wife Ursula and furiously bashing one out over Angelina Jolie in his lair under a railway bridge in Shoreditch.
SPECIAL ABILITIES: Can communicate and fornicate with dolphins and other aquatic life. Breathes under water for 26 seconds. Can eat prawns with the shells on.
It was interesting to meet Neptune last Wednesday afternoon. He pleaded, with tears running down his barnacles, that he wasn't a marine paedophile and that all the charges brought against him were just an elaborate and cunning plan created by his arch enemy, King Triton. Asking him for an explanation, he replied in a rather mysteriously heavy Glaswegian accent: "Ah thoot she wer saxteeeen at tha teeem". Dubious Mr Neptune, dubious. I declined to purchase one of his magazines and let him go about his way. Sadly for Neptune, he drunkenly tripped on the curb in front of me, fell on the floor, smashed his face and pissed himself. What a tragic end for such a regal character.
Posted by F-DAAT! at 22:39
Monday, 11 April 2011
I've just had a very forgettable, or unforgettable, meal at Old Old Old Old Old Orleans.
We were served by a skeleton disguised as a bag of bones called "Ethel", who couldn't have been a day over about 97 years old. This bird was asking Jesus whether he would like "beans, fries or herby diced potatoes with that biblical fish". And Jesus fucking Christ, he wouldn't have stood for what I was served tonight.
I thought I'd be slightly sophisticated and order a starter other than a prawn cocktail, so opted for a "Black & Blue Mushrooms" dish which was meant to be sautéed (ooh, French) mushrooms, something BLACK(?!?)and blue cheese, served on brioche. I got something the resembled what you might find if you scraped a slice of toast along the inside of a toilet pipe coming from the deepest darkest dengue dengue fever intensive care unit in the whole of Africa - or an industrial colonic irrigation production line. The missus got enchiladas. Wise choice. After bitterly attempting to finish this tepid disgrace of an impression of cuisine, Elthel asked us if everything was alright and if we needed more drinks. Whilst receiving a bone shattering kick in the shin from the missus (translates to: be nice, we're at dinner), I decided not to ask for a pint of Tamiflu and an ambulance, instead opting to give a nod and a fraudulent smile.
Next up is the main course. You can't go wrong with a "Mardi-Gras Grill"? Just a plate of assorted grilled meats, served at once and hot? Yes you fucking can. As the usual 6ft tranny in a purple peacock outfit wasn't delivering his trademark dish, Ethel returned with our mains - and so chipper I thought she'd had her nostrils over a bottle of paint thinner since she took the plates from the starter. This brazen assortment of meat could very well have just been lifted off the M11. It was warm, so must have recently died, but so solid in texture that I felt like mailing them off to Help for Heroes as bullet proof armour for Our Boys in Afganistan. It could be saving lives, rather than trying to take mine. I'm trying to grip the steak knife with such ferocity that I miss sliced the steak, let go of the knife and it missiled about one inch wide of a fella's face sitting on the table in front of us. That could have been a fatality. Luckily, he didn't notice and still had both eyes. Whilst this circus is going on with my dinner, the missus is happily chomping away on her delicately cooked, well seasoned and fresh fajitas, blissfully unaware of my agony.
"Glenda" then introduced herself as our new waitress as Ethel was on her "break". I took that as Ethel has just had four strokes and perished in a piss stained heap of apron and bones - now Glenda wants her inherited tip. Bye Ethel. Glenda then repeated Ethel's enquiry and asked if everything was going OK and why I hadn't eaten my kevlar medallions. Not wanting to cause a fuss and quite keen to make an escape, I gave her the same façade and told her it was fine, I wasn't that hungry and would like the bill.
Considering I only even contemplated trying this place because I had a tenner voucher, the bill came as a BIG surprise. FORTY SIX POUNDS. This was AFTER the voucher. I felt like ripping off Glenda's colostomy bag and making her wear it like a hat. Resigned to nothing other failure at my choice of restaurant and with the slight consolation the bird had eaten her food, I decided to get the fuck out of there. Never again. Morale of the story is, go to Harvester. You'll get a waitress at least 80 years younger, meat you can cut without the aide of a diamond drill, more salad & croutons than your wildest dreams - and all for £20.
Posted by F-DAAT! at 21:55
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Saturday, 2 April 2011
I love a night bus. Just love it. When I can remember it. Like plucking various mentalists out of Broadmoor, you couldn't ask for a wider range of nutters - unless the invites went out to Gazza, Myra Hindley, Colonel Gaddafi, Uri Geller and Raoul Moat (and that would be a fun trip - just keep the knives off Hindley, the spoons off Geller and the guns off Moat).
It's not very often you get the chance to debate politics with a dribbling quantity surveyor from Putney or explain to stoned "Kamal" from Stockwell that the only way to get his daughter back is to stop robbing handbags and find a job. On a recent trip from Trafalgar Square, a Bolivian woman leant over to tell me she hadn't stopped itching for days. How gracefully reassuring. In the very same bus trip, a man turned round from the seat in front, in tears, to WHISPER how much "Before he hurt me, George used to eat jaffercakes, to eat jaffercakes". In any other situation I would hit someone like that very hard on a soft part of their head and run like the fucking wind. On this occasion, I'm on the only bus going to East London for at least an hour and doing anything other than slowly nodding seemed like it would cause the McDonald's night worker in front to get horribly stabbed.
However much a circus the next night bus is, I will never forget the very best night bus friend I've ever made. She was the kind of twisted, crack-guzzling mentalist that night buses were designed to ferry from secure unit to secure unit - and, to protect society, someone who really should be under a very large chemical cosh. I like to call her "Shouty Witch". I got on an N8 bus at Oxford Street and quickly manoeuvred into an empty seat, grateful for a rest after a long night out on the lash. Wondering how it was a bit strange that this was the only empty seat on a packed bus, I looked at the window next to my new seat companion, which was completely steamed up as if it was a windscreen of a Eskimo's Land Rover. It was the middle of August - this struck me as rather bizarre. I was soon to find out why. My beloved Shouty Witch then let out a tirade, which I can only compare to Scatman John receiving between 80-120,000 volts of direct current, right into the steamed window. This lasted 8 minutes. Who the fuck am I sitting next to. The civilians looked round with shock - and relief that they weren't me. Then I knew exactly why this seat had been free. At this stage there is no other space, let alone seats, on this packed N8. I am going nowhere. Shouty Witch carried an odour of piss, rotting chicken drumsticks and the all the sweat of a Libyan army tank driver. Before she managed to open the sachet of Whiskas or tin of White Lightening she magically conjured from an unknown orifice, it was mercifully the time for me to get off. I'll never forget you Shouty Witch, my night bus princess - let's just hope we don't cross paths again.
Posted by F-DAAT! at 13:35