Let's get one thing perfectly clear- I usually love Wetherspoons pubs- chain of UK pubs whose main sell is, because they do not pay for overly-hiked royalties to records companies to pump the latest tunes into the pubs ( i.e.they don't play music), it allows them to sell drinks at reduced prices. And it is brilliant. It may be my age, but I adore being out at night, have a drink with pals and able to hear what they're saying, rather than doing a damn fine impression of Gollam as my face contorts in my desperate attempt to hear what they've just said over 93 decibels of Macarena in Yates'.
Decent Wetherspoons in Manchester
But then you visit the Blackpool one.
*WARNING:
THE NEXT TIRADE OF ABUSE SHOULD BE AVOIDED BY PERSONS OF A SENSITIVE NATURE*
Picture the scene.
It is a lovely, warm and balmy evening in July. After a hard day at work, my better half suggests a wee walk to the pub, and grab a bite to eat. He suggests nipping to Wetherspoons in South Shore...not a 20 minute stroll from our home.
Cecelia does an excellent impression of the Incredible Hulk.
There is a reason why cliches and stereotypes exist- they invariably have a grain of Truth lurking somewhere deep inside them. Take Wetherspoons in Blackpool- why is every Wetherspoons I've ever visited have been lovely places to eat and drink? Even Fleetwood?! But in the Blackpool pub in South Shore, cliches abound aplenty.
You approach the bar.
Infront of you, is a young, terrified pimpled youth staring back at you saying in his mind, "please don't want a drink please don't want a drink". His startled Bambi impression reminds you that one week earlier, he'd been in the cellars rolling beer barrels back and forth until the Manager, desperate for front-line help, demands he goes upstairs and serves behind the bar.
You ask for your drink...his trembling hands grasp the beer glass until you think it will shatter; the glass fills with foam as he desperately looks around for help and he thinks he spots it- the supervisor. The 'supervisor', is at least a whole two years older than he is, a sour-faced-looking brunette who runs around behind the bar as if she's terribly busy, until you notice she's doing nothing. Except looking busy. As she darts in and out behind the bar blatantly ignoring his Bambi expression, more and more people descend onto the bar.
They want serving.
Our now flushed and red-necked barboy is now beyond himself with terror- but at least your glass of foam that he put to the side 5 minutes ago has started to resemble at least a third of a pint of lager. He starts on the next lager and does a little better...but he still needs help to serve the next 16 people all now throwing looks to the sky, coughing and sighing loudly. His supervisor, at last, comes back out into the bar area- but with a case of alcopops. She surveys the queue of waiting customers and does what any supervisor does... turns her back and slowly begins to stock the fridge with alcopops.
The 16 'men' who were so blatently sighing and coughing, now turn it up a gear. They are all here on a Stag Night...and their coach arrived in Blackpool 2 hours ago and they're on the pull. But first, they must tank up. This pimple-head is costing them vital drinking time. The 'subtle' cues are obviously being blatently ignored, so they now turn into jeering and shouts of "come on mate we're next", as a few of the men declare their intention of "going for a slash- get us a pitcher mate- we'll get drunk faster". They push against you at the bar, being blatently rude and shoving with their elbow whilst pretending they're doing nothing of the sort. Lots of forced laughter and male-jokes abound as the overwhelming stench of various cheap aftershaves mingle with each other in the confined space, and you start praying mentally for the damn barchild to hurry up.
As you try to patiently wait for your two pints of beer to emerge, you turn your head and catch the look of a old man sitting at the bottom of the bar. He sits alone, smoking a pack of Hamlet cigars, drinking bitter and has spread his newspaper out over two feet of the barspace on the Horse-racing pages. It is at least 30 degrees in the shade; but he is still wearing that old tweed discoloured jacket over a grubby-collared shirt and a yellowing vest. He has never heard of deodorant- B.O. is that woman who was in that film called 10 with blonde dreadlocks.
He catches your look: you smile at him in acknowledgement, and he returns a burning look of hatred that you are in His Local. You are ruining the quiet order of things. And he detests you. The barboy isn't listening to his inane drivel of the 1966 World Cup or of the odds on the 3.30 at Aintree and he doesn't like it. He hates you and blows foul-smelling smoke your way before returning to scanning the horse fixtures.
Meanwhile, back at the table you picked whilst waiting for the better half orders the drinks, you casually read the Menu, and decide on your order. Your better half returns with the wet and foamed lagers and places them where beer-mats should be. A typical family of Blackpool holiday-makers enter the public bar, and plonk themselves not 6 feet away from you. The wife, sunburnt red because "it's the first day of the holiday innit" shouts shrilly at the two E-number addict children running round the table before someone hits the other and screams and shouts begin.
You try to hide your face in your beer glass as you note her arm-pits aren't shaven, her bright pink sweat-soaked strapless t-shirt rides up over her stomach (as she's a size 20 but buys 16s) and her home-bleached hair "because she's worth it" is turning green. The husband- usually rake-thin- sits slovenly in his Adidas bottoms, paying little attention to the bedlam surrounding him, except when one of the kids knocks the table where his beer sits. Then he hollers, usually with expletives "sit the f**k down" etc etc and child crying and tantrums ensue. His tattoos, pierced ear and his spikey haircut from the '80s remind him he's still a stud, but you can see the hunter became the hunted when he got her up the duff.
As you sit and eat your cooling food and foam-ridden Grolsch, surrounded by pimple-laden barboys, stinky old men, alcohol-ridden stag night yobs and holidaying families, you wonder why you came in.
And that, my friends, is why you should NEVER EVER go to Blackpool Wetherspoons.
It's so sh*te that even WetherspoonsPlc haven't taken a photo of it for their company website.
Be warned.
Fin.
It is a lovely, warm and balmy evening in July. After a hard day at work, my better half suggests a wee walk to the pub, and grab a bite to eat. He suggests nipping to Wetherspoons in South Shore...not a 20 minute stroll from our home.
Cecelia does an excellent impression of the Incredible Hulk.
There is a reason why cliches and stereotypes exist- they invariably have a grain of Truth lurking somewhere deep inside them. Take Wetherspoons in Blackpool- why is every Wetherspoons I've ever visited have been lovely places to eat and drink? Even Fleetwood?! But in the Blackpool pub in South Shore, cliches abound aplenty.
You approach the bar.
Infront of you, is a young, terrified pimpled youth staring back at you saying in his mind, "please don't want a drink please don't want a drink". His startled Bambi impression reminds you that one week earlier, he'd been in the cellars rolling beer barrels back and forth until the Manager, desperate for front-line help, demands he goes upstairs and serves behind the bar.
You ask for your drink...his trembling hands grasp the beer glass until you think it will shatter; the glass fills with foam as he desperately looks around for help and he thinks he spots it- the supervisor. The 'supervisor', is at least a whole two years older than he is, a sour-faced-looking brunette who runs around behind the bar as if she's terribly busy, until you notice she's doing nothing. Except looking busy. As she darts in and out behind the bar blatantly ignoring his Bambi expression, more and more people descend onto the bar.
They want serving.
Our now flushed and red-necked barboy is now beyond himself with terror- but at least your glass of foam that he put to the side 5 minutes ago has started to resemble at least a third of a pint of lager. He starts on the next lager and does a little better...but he still needs help to serve the next 16 people all now throwing looks to the sky, coughing and sighing loudly. His supervisor, at last, comes back out into the bar area- but with a case of alcopops. She surveys the queue of waiting customers and does what any supervisor does... turns her back and slowly begins to stock the fridge with alcopops.
The 16 'men' who were so blatently sighing and coughing, now turn it up a gear. They are all here on a Stag Night...and their coach arrived in Blackpool 2 hours ago and they're on the pull. But first, they must tank up. This pimple-head is costing them vital drinking time. The 'subtle' cues are obviously being blatently ignored, so they now turn into jeering and shouts of "come on mate we're next", as a few of the men declare their intention of "going for a slash- get us a pitcher mate- we'll get drunk faster". They push against you at the bar, being blatently rude and shoving with their elbow whilst pretending they're doing nothing of the sort. Lots of forced laughter and male-jokes abound as the overwhelming stench of various cheap aftershaves mingle with each other in the confined space, and you start praying mentally for the damn barchild to hurry up.
As you try to patiently wait for your two pints of beer to emerge, you turn your head and catch the look of a old man sitting at the bottom of the bar. He sits alone, smoking a pack of Hamlet cigars, drinking bitter and has spread his newspaper out over two feet of the barspace on the Horse-racing pages. It is at least 30 degrees in the shade; but he is still wearing that old tweed discoloured jacket over a grubby-collared shirt and a yellowing vest. He has never heard of deodorant- B.O. is that woman who was in that film called 10 with blonde dreadlocks.
He catches your look: you smile at him in acknowledgement, and he returns a burning look of hatred that you are in His Local. You are ruining the quiet order of things. And he detests you. The barboy isn't listening to his inane drivel of the 1966 World Cup or of the odds on the 3.30 at Aintree and he doesn't like it. He hates you and blows foul-smelling smoke your way before returning to scanning the horse fixtures.
Meanwhile, back at the table you picked whilst waiting for the better half orders the drinks, you casually read the Menu, and decide on your order. Your better half returns with the wet and foamed lagers and places them where beer-mats should be. A typical family of Blackpool holiday-makers enter the public bar, and plonk themselves not 6 feet away from you. The wife, sunburnt red because "it's the first day of the holiday innit" shouts shrilly at the two E-number addict children running round the table before someone hits the other and screams and shouts begin.
You try to hide your face in your beer glass as you note her arm-pits aren't shaven, her bright pink sweat-soaked strapless t-shirt rides up over her stomach (as she's a size 20 but buys 16s) and her home-bleached hair "because she's worth it" is turning green. The husband- usually rake-thin- sits slovenly in his Adidas bottoms, paying little attention to the bedlam surrounding him, except when one of the kids knocks the table where his beer sits. Then he hollers, usually with expletives "sit the f**k down" etc etc and child crying and tantrums ensue. His tattoos, pierced ear and his spikey haircut from the '80s remind him he's still a stud, but you can see the hunter became the hunted when he got her up the duff.
As you sit and eat your cooling food and foam-ridden Grolsch, surrounded by pimple-laden barboys, stinky old men, alcohol-ridden stag night yobs and holidaying families, you wonder why you came in.
And that, my friends, is why you should NEVER EVER go to Blackpool Wetherspoons.
It's so sh*te that even WetherspoonsPlc haven't taken a photo of it for their company website.
Be warned.
Fin.
1 comment:
Excellent! Absolutely inspired!
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