Tiger, Tiger – ye old shit hole

July 21, 2009 at 21:18 (Pub review) (, , )

To quote Shakespeare, life’s a bit fucking shite isn’t it?

That pearl is from Hamlet – somewhere at the back – and it goes to show that despite being dead for five hundred years he still scores a bull’s-eye when it comes to the odd musing about this incredible long coil we call existence.

I’m assuming from its soundness that part of old Will’s wisdom came from some merry hey-nonny-noony lurching around the dirty drinking holes of central London – as its a depressing experience not unlike putting one’s ball sac in a massive vice.

I was reminded of this recently when  I was once more dragged into Piccadilly’s own personal gate way to hell, Tiger Tiger. It was down to a friend of mine – let’s call him Mr Twat – and just like my previous follies (recounted on beerintheevening) it left me with a deep flame thrower type sense of violence towards the human race.

You see there are many things that puzzle me in this life: the meaning of existence, quantum physics, The Times Crossword, William Shatner’s hairpiece, why people would want to go anywhere near Katie Price’s fanny – the usual stuff really. But most perplexing of all is why on Gods green Earth is there always a queue outside this sub-gutter dive.

I suppose that as with all bafflement in life a little thought usual solves the problem, and when one breathes in the cheap and superficial tackiness of Crappy Crappy you can discern that cat’s arse scent that effortlessly attracts most of Zone 1s chavs, yobs, STD ridden tarts and lower earning suits who charmingly possess a second arsehole for a brain. But then having come up with this apparently satisfactory answer youre then faced with a procession of new perplexing queries;

How could anything that walks on two legs not be repelled by the stench of yobbery and the fake “classy” interior?

How the hell does this assortment of minimum wage and welfare pond life afford the unbelievable prices?

What exactly have the rude and arse faced bouncers got up their backsides?

And what is this about a dress code and a “couples” only policy?

Is this an excuse to turn anyone away who might have an IQ higher than that of a burberry hat?

Only by scraping the barrel pretty fecking hard can you find the sole redeeming and base feature that if you re a 20 something lad you may well enjoy Crappy Crappy`s parade of flesh, if of course you’re not too fussy about the level of crotch rotting bacteria in your immediate vicinity.

I don’t know, maybe I’ve had one too many ales and am now officially a fossil, but drinking and enjoying oneself in my book shouldn’t result in a desire to destroy absolutely fucking everything in the world.

To take another gem from Shakespeare – from Kind Lear I believe – its best to: close your sweet eyes, look to the heavens and pray for a massive outbreak of aggressive syphilis.

What a guy.


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