We went out for St George's Day. It had to be done, despite half of the group being of non-English origin, and really not caring about dragon-slaying folklore!
Having established that every normal pub was jam-packed with football fans, we swiftly adjusted our plans to head for the arty haunt that is Milgi's. This was most enjoyable, and only mildly tainted by the video footage of an intimidating looking female stuffing her mouth full of cake and drinking milk through a straw attached to cups taped to her breasts. Each to their very little own...
...anyway, we ended up in town, where it took me thirty minutes to get served in Lloyd's, which I passed in the following way:
Minutes 0-5: Happily waiting my turn.
Minutes 6-10: Feeling slightly thirsty, but appreciative of staff trying to serve lots of people. Start to read the labels on the bottles behind the bar.
Minutes 11-13: Having finished reading the labels on the bottles, move on to counting the number of people at the bar. Now only one person from the bar, so thankful that it's nearly my turn.
Minutes 14-15: Music has changed from preferred cheese to mainstream chav. Start to feel a little irritated, but allow a smaller person to be served first. It's nearly my turn anyway.
Minute 16: Have just been pushed infront of by a large, pretty, blonde girl. Find small amount of comfort in the fact that she appears to be as bright as the broken lightbulb in our hall.
Minutes 17-18: Strange, middle-aged, European man has just reached out from behind me and grabbed the guy at the bar's backside, before continuing conversation in what appears to be Polish, with his suited colleague. Man at bar gives me dirty look. Not of the friendly variety.
Minute 19: Blonde girl from Minute 16 has just spilt one of her eight drinks all over my arm in trying to carry all eight away at once. Note previous comment about lightbulbs.
Minute 20: Older, Polish freak has just repeated previous action, with the result that man at bar got stroppy and switched places with his mate, who feels it necessary to spend Minutes 21 and 22 making fun of the guilty-looking, thirsty, tramp-like object that is me.
Minutes 21-22: Am trying to avoid hearing the victim and friend muttering about the bottom-grabbing-girl stood behind them.
Minute 23: Polish man has noticed my discomfort at the situation, and says the following, to one can only assume make me feel better, "It is okay. That man can only dream of a lady you like to grab his arse. It is normal for only the elephants to grab his arse. Yes? Yes?" He then guffaws uncontrollably, sporadically slapping my back. Everybody at the bar now associates me with strange, Polish man. The bartender chooses to ignore me and move on to the two beautiful girls who've apparently teleported to the front of the queue.
Minute 24: They are playing that song that I can't make out the words to, with the really nasal sounding singer. I think it's number 4 in the singles chart at the moment. Am annoyed that I can remember its chart position and not who sang it.
Minutes 25-27: Have given up hope on ever being served, but have exact change ready just incase. Have exchanged all silver coins for the correct complement of coppers. Find small amount of satisfaction that I've got rid of some 2ps.
Minute 28: There is hope. The two men to my left have taken their drinks and left me a space. I take the space, but drop a 2 pence piece in the process.
Minute 29: Have to recount my silver coins, as 2p is nowhere to be seen. Miss my turn whilst searching for 2p.
Minute 30: Bartender asks how he can help. Girl with ridiculously pointless top interjects. Apparently she's been there for at least ten minutes. Bartender apologises to girl and takes her order of 12 drinks, before heading off to throw his sponge at another employee, resulting in two less possible people to take my order.
Minute 32: I buy a rum and coke, returning to a table of people who ask what I've been doing for all this time. Am grumpy.
The rum wasn't even that good. Grumble.
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