Went to an establishment last evening that was so far up its' own backside the only thing I could recognise on the menu, between the puree of aubergine and the confit of gently boiled twat, was duck pizza with plum sauce. I'm not making this up, I couldn't. And don't tell anyone but it was actually very good. Coupled with the fact that the barman took great and gleeful pleasure in informing me that '...we don't do cider, sir,' and that one of the people I was with had the cheek to send me up to the bar to order a fcuking fizzy mineral water since she's training for the New York marathon and drink makes her 'violent', Mash, 19-21 Great Portland Street W1 can fcuk right off and give me my £53 back. Cnuts.
Still, I secretly quite enjoyed pretending I was a flash bastard like Buckfast for an evening.
Not that you would, but don't go to Mash, it's pants.
Still, I secretly quite enjoyed pretending I was a flash bastard like Buckfast for an evening.
Not that you would, but don't go to Mash, it's pants.
