Pubs in Borough – a choice between a bucket of shite and a slab of gold

August 7, 2009 at 22:38 (Pub review) (, , , , , )

Just got in from my local – the Monkey Balls. It was a short one tonight as Fat Malcolm put out the electrics again – time after time we tell him not to warm his pies in the fuse box, but does the obese fucker listen?

Anyway, before I settle down for the night in front of Babestation, I’ve turned my attention to tomorrow evening and the problem of finding a decent pub in Borough. Its a tricky one as the choice in this plush area of the capital is between two extremes, typified by two pubs a thrown midgets distance apart.

On the one hand you have the Shite and Lettuce, part of the chain which proves in my opinion that Satan has the world firmly by the jaffers. Recently reviewed the Borough outlet on beerinthevening and as I say this is one of the better examples of the brand, but its still piss poor. The original interior of the building – which looks rather good –  is buried under the wank glamour of bog standard fittings and furnishings that have clearly been farted out of some poor, gigantic elephant that they have chained up somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, as I said in a previous post, there are legitimate reasons why Spunk and LambShit and its hunchback cousin All Bar Crap are driving many independent pubs into the ground – they do food, combos and drinks that cater for a profitable market. Its a market of wankers of course, but then there are a lot of wankers out there. Just take a look at the Tory frontbench next time you catch the news.

Still if you have a choice between joining the muppet brigade and drinking at somewhere like the Southwark Tavern, surely its a no brainer. Here is a place of class. A well run establishment with a wide variety of booze set in an unblemished, original interior spread over two spacious floors linked by a spiral-ish staircase leading to a row of quirky cell partitions down. Yes, it can be packed in tighter that Lucy Pinder’s chesticles in a sports top, but if you want a real experience in Borough then this is the place to go.

So thats my top tip for drinking in Borough. Im off for a pot noodle and a … yeah, you can guess the rest.


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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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