Jonola14

CHICAGO'S AGAIN

Finally, at about 8 o'clock last night, Mark R and I decided to go out into Watford town centre. We started off in the Moon Under Water (a Wetherspoon's pub) which was extremely busy and full of white-trainered, large fake 'white gold' necklaced, imbecilic oiks. How can anybody think that they look good wearing those? Does anybody out there think it's a good fashion? I personally would rather wear my elf outfit to a goblin-only Christmas party.

Anyway, we then headed for Bodega's, a classy bar with not a trainer in site. Here we drank Polish Firewater, which Mark had never had before, and I quote him "I can feel it dissolving the Quarter Pounder I ate" and we both agreed that we much preferred the up-market atmosphere - not that we are snobbish, but we've had enough of the pea-brained idiocy of the local Watfordian troglodytes and we'd far rather pay a few extra pennies per pint than be exposed to their cretinism.

When Bodega's closed, Mark expressed a distinct desire to visit Chicago's - the bar with all the old women. Once more, he was not disappointed and before long we found ourselves kissing hands and complimenting on blouses. Mark, however had to take it further with a 29 year old walrus - short, plump, terrible short hair, bearded, but hey, she had a smashing blouse on. I found this particularly amusing and did my utmost to further encourage the interaction, but, alas, the evening drew to a conclusion and we were then herded out the door by the burly security staff.

Then we met a guy holding a McDonald's bag - Ben. Mark started up a conversation and we were then submitted to Ben's detailed life-story, indispersed with tales from the nursing home where Ben works, including extensive information on how the old folk "do it". "What's in the bag?" I asked him, bored of the gross images of wrinkly flesh imposing upon more wrinkly flesh. "Well, there WERE three Quarter-pounder-with-cheese meals, but there's only one now", he replied. I motioned towards the bag "may I?", and without waiting for an answer, relieved him of the bag and began happily munching away on the burger inside. Result. Mark then took the fries, opened a barbecue sauce and handed the two to a passing tramp who was ever so grateful. Thanks Ben!

Not satisfied with the free burger, the kebab shop beckoned and we stumbled in the door, put on our very best accents and went through the entire kebab-ordering process in FRENCH. "Urrrr, avec plusieurs oignons s'il vous plait, des piments, urrr, (I couldn't remember the word for cabbage, so I didn't have it) et sauce piquante. Merci bien Monsieur, a la prochaine". Utterly splendid, and the white-trainer types didn't have a clue what was going on.

Then, at 7 o'clock this morning, I woke up, opened my eyes and muttered 'not again...' as I noticed I had once more fallen asleep fully clothed. I could also smell the chilli sauce (sauce piquante) on my shirt and clocked the chilli dribblings on my trousers.

It is now half past eleven, I feel like death warmed up and Mark has yet to materialise. Splendid.