My local
It might be thought fortunate to have a pub within 200 yards of your front door. Indeed, apart from the time I lived next door to a pub it couldn't have been closer really. All-in-all an episode for easy drinking joy you might think. But not when that pub is the 'Gracy Fields' as it is known.
I haven't actually been through the doors for six months, and with good reason, for it is a dive. On my last trip it was karaoke night, although to be honest, every night seems to be karaokoke night.
There was a very sad 'waiting room for death' vibe about the place, and then the karaoke began.
What followed appearred to be a well rehearsed and established foray into bad taste. One by one the punters went up and 'sang' their songs. None of them in any way talented. In fact they sang in much the same way that I make speeches.
Without recourse to notes of any kind.
Also it became obvious that no one was going home until the end, when Jeff and Sam sang their awful duet, which they clearly did every night. It was like being trapped in a Mike Leigh film.
And there's more. I usually sport a #2 on my follically challenged bonce, and yet I usually have the longest hair amongst the male punters. I'm also the only one not wearing a shiny football strip. And now, in my 40s, I am older by a good ten years than the other punters.
A truly awful dive of hellish proportions. Even 'fancyapint.com' disses it.
(Mr Steve is jobless and fancyfree!, Tue 10 Feb 2009, 12:12, Reply)