Friday, January 23, 2009

Cocaine Trains, 24 Hour Licensing and Not A Chippy In Sight

The lads got together last night for a bit of a beer and rant session. Attendance was excellent with five of us showing up.

I got a taxi down, being the only out of towner. It wasn't the cost that alarmed me though, the taxi driver was one of those chatty English blokes and was happy ranting away about this and that. He mentioned how he was out last week and the pub closed at 11. WTF? What sort of hour is 11 o'fucking clock to be closing your pub in the land of 24 hour licensing. Anyhoo I took it with a pinch of salt, maybe it was just a one off?

When I arrived at Bar Gay..... I mean Boy George.... I mean Bar George...everybody was already seated. The nights of the round table. At about 2 beers in everybody loosened up and the rant was flowing freely. From the human race to teachers I think we just about covered it all. I learnt something as well, Cocaine Trains. There were a bunch of pin-striped toss pots (not that Iprejudge people of course) sat close to us who were regularly taking it in turns to go to the toilet in groups of 3. I just assumed they were bummers but in fact it's something called a Cocaine Train. The give away being the smug, back slapping looks they come back with.

So just as the night was really warming up for what could have been a better than great session time was called. At 11 o'clock. People left, chairs were put on tables until there was only us sat there. I was CONVINCED that it was some sort of a joke. Apparently not. Left to wander the streets it was decided that a chippy was the next order of the day, we wandered long and far, looking for anywhere that had a sign of life. Not a bloody one open. What sort of a shit hole island is this? I demand the right to be able to drink later than 11 on my thrice annual nights out and I also demand the right to go to a chippy on the way home, as I've done for the last 13 years. All this talk of credit crunches and shite is all great until you can't go to a chippy on your way home.

It was a great night, great company and shoddy lager. I've just crawled out of bed with a head that is begging me to puke my guts up to feel better. Now that wouldn't have happened if I'd had some chips to put on top of the dirty nasty lager.

Here's a picture of us in Boy George.....I mean Bar George:-

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