Sunday, 12 July 2009

Friday nights with Ward and Lukowski

So on Wednesday my friend Flea (not THAT Flea) takes me to this bar in Soho. It is awesome, like a sort of shabby member's club down some anonymous steps. Even pretty cheap for Soho. I spend the next 48 hours telling people how good it is.

Come Friday me and Ward happen to be drinking in Soho, like the two cocks of the walk that we are.

Ward suggests we get some tinnies in and throw them at the people on the plinth in Trafalgar Square. This was, in retrospect, the right suggestion. But I, filled with piss and vinegar and the desire to share this new bar with the world, insist we head to a place I envisage to become a regular town centre haunt.

The following is more a paraphrase than a transcript, but is basically accurate.

Ward comes back from bar. He is angry, but then he is always angry

Ward: Fucking bar woman. Fuck fuck fuck. I fucking watched her make our drinks and she didn't fucking put any fucking spirits in them. So said so and asked her to taste them and she just got really angry with me and said she was pregnant, so I didn't fucking pay for them. Fuck fuck.
Me: Oh. Well I'll just go over and order again.
Ward: Fuck. Okay. Fuck.

I walk to the bar, and rather foolishly make EXACTLY the same order

Barwoman: [brightly] Oh, actually I have some of those pre-made! [pulls out what are obviously the drinks from before]
Me: Oh, I think I'd rather you made me some new ones if that's okay.
Barwoman: You're with HIM, aren't you?
Me: Um, no, I really don't know what you're talking about, is it okay if I get some new ones.

The barwoman sulkily makes them, this time adding spirits

Me: Thankyou!

The barwoman slams my change down, furiously. I rejoin Mark. He is scribbling notes on pieces of paper saying something like 'this place is shit'

Ward: [sipping his drink] This is fucking weak.
Me: Oh, it's okay. At least we got served.

The manager walks over, looks at Ward's notes, grabs our drinks and furiously tells us to get out, more or less hauling Ward bodily with the aid of a rather apologetic bouncer. I sort of vaguely try to reason with them/get my drink back, but the manager has worked himself up into one of those irrational rages where he simply won't engage. Which seems to more or less be the hiring policy of this place

Me: Fuck.
Bouncer: I'm really sorry.
Ward: [On phone] Hello, police? Yeah, I've been assualted.
Me: Hmm.
Ward: Right. I've called the fucking police, they can't fucking do that.
Me: Yeah, they're kind of dicks. Though the bouncer is quite apologetic.
Ward: Can you punch me in the back?
Me: Sure [punches Ward in back]. Why?
Ward: Need bruises for when the police arrive.
Me: Um.

Time elapses. The manager comes out and sort of growls at us from a distance at one point. Mark calls the police back

Ward: [on phone] Yeah, alright, well I'll be coming into Stoke Newington police station tomorrow to make a complaint.

We head home, bar duly ruined

TEXT LOG NEXT DAY

Me - MW: So how was the police station?
MW - me: Just about to head over there...
Me - MW: Brilliant! Can't believe you're honestly going to do this!
MW - me: Yeah, I feel like chickening out but they were so unjustifiably cuntish
MW - me: Massive waste of time. You can't make a complaint unless you file for assault, which I'm not going to do. Oh well.
MW - me: Predicatbly the barbecue I was going to has been cancelled. Where are you and McD? I'm ready to kill some braincells.

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