I exited the fwah fwah fwah club I'd sat in all day on Pall Mall into the mild drizzle of London ready for adventure. Today I was heading somewhere off piste with my drinking buddy Annabelle. She was hiding somewhere amongst the Eros-snapping tourists in Piccadilly. I found her clutching a mushroom stroganoff, pondering [...]
A miserable, handless and out of shape statue of George II is sits in the middle of Golden Square in Soho. Upon his head shits pigeons, and at his feet sit TEFL students eating chips and pasties. I stood and took it all in. A man screaming "Help me save my life!" tottered around [...]
The receptionist at Danesfield House frowned when Lwa demanded some cheap lager. I could see him out the corner of my eye processing the request as we headed towards the bar. He wasn't quick enough to protest. Danesfield is a big creaking country house hotel and spa. Sports cars litter the entrance and anonymous [...]
Henley is not designed for The Mission. It's where the prosecco junkies hang out waiting for the holy month of Regatta. It's a fine, fine place; but the bottles of Seedlip in the wine merchant's window are reaching a little. The dustbins overflow with Moet bottles and the river detritus always includes champagne corks. [...]
Tastes like pils. Looks like pils. Bit sweet. Not for Bureau Dog.
Almost 24 hours had passed since the discovery of the Captain Tom in Manchester's NQ. But the opportunity was too good to miss with so many bars, even if the floor was swilling in an inch of flash rain. The Walrus on a rainy Tuesday is at first a disappointing sight. Neither shiny or glitzy [...]
I can't speak. I can only blubber. It tastes like Pils. Huzzah. Result: Success
Manchester after dark is like a cattle prod in the ear for the Monkey Voice to scream DRINK at you. I was tempted to lock myself out of harm's way. But this was the perfect chance to see if anyone could rise to the challenge of The Mission. All I had to do was [...]
There's nothing inherently wrong with Beck's Blue. If you don't think of it as beer, but instead class it as a nice hoppy, malty drink, it's OK. But. The bar was bustling. It had been a micro brewery before re-opening recently. Before that it was a police station, perhaps that was an omen. There [...]
I gave the instructions to a waitress who appeared out of nowhere when we pushed the Push For Prossie button on the table. She knew the rules. No sugar, no kid's drink, no mocktail. Certainly no fucking orange squash. It didn't stop her suggesting all three after trying to palm us off with tequila [...]