Stuck for somewhere to drink beer with your grandfather? Try these discrete venues – all bar-staff are trained not to stare in disbelief as you rest your balls in the ashtray.
Golden Tudor Woof * * ** ** *
An old-fashioned pub, which reflects the personality of its owner, a golden labrador. It’s immensely difficult to get served, but she will let you comb her hair once she’s got used to you.
Kismet Wine Lounge *_*
Who was the best female lead in Cheers? Shelley Long and Kirstie Alley wrestle over this accolade on every table – in Lego form! On kidney-shaped table 14, Shelley has legged up Ms Alley and is sitting on her neck – move to lagoon-themed table 9, and Kirstie has given Ms Long a nasty Chinese Burn. As you might expect, the customers usually end up arguing, too – which is why purple knockout gas sprays regularly from the brass vents.
Crimshaw’s Island **
Its exotic location Рa tiny shard of rock 120 km west of the coast of Cornwall Рbelies its very dreary interior. Hewn from clich̩, a fat man stares, his squat dog dozing by the fire, and a brusque middle-aged barmaid with a gnarled face wordlessly clonked our pints on the counter. The beer garden, however, was terrific Рour screams were torn from our throats by the full, merciless fury of the grey Atlantic, choking us with its bitter salt spray, roaring like the devil unbound, seemingly trying to puncture a hole in the featurelessly bleak, steel sky above, to welcome in whatever cold apocalypse we all truly deserve . Quiz on Tuesdays.
The Goat Anne Project ***1/2
Anne is not a goat – yet – but follow her amazing journey in this delightful cabaret-bistro where everything is a pound what everything yes everything. Every Thursday, she gets her hooves put on – every Saturday, she kicks them off doing the Can-Can. If the idea of a goat-women not learning from her mistakes doesn’t make you angry, it’s a must. A tip for under-18s wanting to get ripped and knife-crazy… the bouncer adores Kit-Kats.
Torn Assholl ******~
Confrontational new bar in Vulmdon. The toilets are mostly shaped like wailing ladies’ mouths. The ones that are wincing with their mouths shut have a hollow skull-top, so just piss into the wig and it’ll soak through with time.
Teeny-Weeny Lambda Kappa Mu
Ever wondered what it’d be like if you stumbled across a miniaturised frat party? The kegs of beer that they bought with a fake ID barely wetting your lips? Until now, stuffy old Englishmen would have harumphed and said it wasn’t possible – but advances in Nerd technology have shown them! Watch out – the draught caused by you removing your coat might blow off the bras of the poolside revellers!
The Turning Of The Screw ***
Interactive art pub in the heart of Glossopston. Experience first to third hand Tracey Emin’s attempt to reconstruct famous murders using only her own ear-splitting screams, while a coal-faced clown under the table paws at your legs with a shrivelled sow. All the drinks are foul.
The Fangolier *** **
Featuring sumptuous terrains, convincing water and smoke effects, this pub gets as close as I’ve seen to a truly free-roaming experience. Customers are faced with a myriad of decisions – all of which affect the final outcome of the night. The attention to detail is superb – shoot a man in the right leg, and he reacts immediately to the damaged area, even shouting “fuck, my right leg”. If I had any complaints, it would be the lack of power-ups and shit-filled toilets.
Fanny By Gaslight * * *
Adorable gothic pillars and exquisite candelabras are dwarfed by a fire-breathing vagina that takes up the entire ceiling. Drinks are oily, and the chairs, although tiny, seat up to fifteen.
Barald’s ( * )
As you make your way across the astroturf to the revolving central bar – shaped like a golden clam crying out in delight – a beautiful, complex pseudomantra plays on a Hammond organ. It’s only when you get to the bar that you realise the grinning barman who you have been cheerfully waving to on your journey is actually a wax simulcram of a man, the facial features melted in with a cigarette. The pseudomantra reaches a curious, tumbling phase, like increased gravity, and you become aware of the movement at your feet. You crouch down; hens. Thousands and thousands of tiny, brightly coloured hens – every hue of the rainbow – from the size of a pinhead up to roughly a fingernail, wandering and scratching amongst the miniature forest of astroturf. And as you bounded merrily over here, you must have crushed… hundreds. As you feel the gorge rise in your throat, the pseudomantra suddenly reaches a screeching, piercing peak – as a man-sized wasp drops onto you from the ceiling, its every surface – your scrabbling hands discover, just before you black out – covered in humming, motile hair.
WARNING: Due to its proximity to the station, Barald’s can get very crowded with tourists on Friday and Saturday nights.
This half-baked page was extracted from a volley of emails between Raz and myself. We were both trying to avoid being the one to make the decision about which pub to drink in.
Indeed. I believe you chose a Wetherspoons…
Yes. And you should know. You were there too, you oddly distant man.
It’s not FAIR!
I want to go for a drink in a pub with you too! Or even in a wine bar.
Comments meet! Anyone?
YAY! or will it just be us two…? I dont want you touching me up…
Let’s go to Bar Roundabout. You sit on a traffic island, and the bar staff drive around and around in ice-cream vans, holding cocktails out to you in nets. It’s nice. But a bit noisy. And it stinks of petrol. In a good way!
I WILL TOUCH UP WHATEVER I LIKE AND YOU WILL LIKE IT
That’s the name of the bar we’re going to, Spastemizer. It’s themed.
Hmmm, in that case, can we go to ‘Rohypnol Fuelled Bumrapery Followed By Cognac and Cigars’ afterwards please? it’s one of the lesser known but better quality establishments – men and women welcome – plenty of sofas to lounge around on, and all drinks served by shifty looking barmen in tampered-with glasses.
Or, we could meet up in Ye Olde Grumpye Oake, a pub run by gentle forest folk, situated in a hollowed out Oak Tree in the middle of a leafy dell. Drinks are flown to you from the bar by pixies, and served in Acorn cups; Goblin bouncers guard the doors, and Fairies flitter about your head and hold your hair back for you whilst vomiting into an upturned toadstool.
When you are ready to leave, if you have had too much Honeymeade, a troll will give you a piggy-back to the nearest stream, where you can catch a leaf to float you home to bed!
The food is a bit shit though.
Or come out to Amsterdam and visit Oggie Broodjewegs, a late night cafe bar open till Thurday every night except Wednesday catering to the post-post-club-bar-post scene. Dress code: 1994. Expect barstaff to call you a “crazy mutherfucka” at the end of every sentence. Bar decor situated on two levels. The Banging Hootfloor is the main dance level shaped like an orange moustache complete with giant bits of cheese and egg. Music style: Cow-House and Drum and Pancake. Expect to pick up plenty of loose 12 year olds in the later stages of syphilitic dementia. Upstairs is for a smoother crowd, knowingly dressed as windmills and supping on treacle black ales served in luminous bumbags. Hot sausages made out of drugs are available till 11am. No toilets as this bar operates a piss where you are policy.
Every single one of the bars in that list sound superior to CXR.
Or the “Time Frame Bar” as I know it. You know, because the floors are so sticky, everyone is rooted to the spot and they look like they’re running a race but they’ve been freeze framed. Except for one poinsonous queen who is somehow able to glide across the floor, slightly above ground level like the ghouls in Buffy, and can make a Beeline straight for you without your being able to escape.
It reminds me of a film I used to love when I was tiny and wee. I can’t remember anything about it except there was a magic t-shirt with a tiger on it and he was stuck to the spot and his best mate was an Abo who drew a tiger on his t-shirt and then he could run really fast. Can anyone remember what that film was? It’s going to bug me for EVER now.
SAMMY’S SUPER T-SHIRT – There was this kid, right? Called Sammy, and he had a… yes, well. Archetypal childhood Messiah fantasy gave the initially poor, put-upon and bullied Sammy a New Start In Life as the picture on his T-Shirt (which we seem to remember was one of those iron-on tiger’s heads, or something), when rubbed, gave off “magical powers”, due to some accidental chemical spillage incident wiv da shirt. Time stopped, sports day races were won and much mayhem ensued. Eventually, of course, something “went wrong” to make Sammy discard the shirt and “love himself for who he really is”. Or something like that, but that was the dull moral that all the kids always ignored anyway.
From here:
http://tv.cream.org/lookin/cff/
The song “Sammy’s Super T-Shirt” was written and performed by Harry Robinson, who’s also famous for the song “Hoots Mon (There’s A Moose Loose About This Hoos)”
Check it out on imdb
Check THIS out on imdb! My mum is the same mum as the mum in “Stop or my mom will shoot”. It’s spelled a bit different, but sho-nuff – that’s my mum!
Tutti Bomowski (the mom in “Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot”) IS the same as your mom, except your mom is spelled Tutti Bumowski. And in England, we say “mum”. And “fanny packs” are bum bags! And “sidewalk” is tom-arr-toe!
Log. Your mum is Sophia from the Golden Girls? That explains a lot.
Speedwolf, you’re a genius. Although if I’d known that that show was actually called “Sammy’s Super T-Shirt” I probably wouldn’t have mentioned it.
I’m on imdb you know. That’s real fame, that is.
Log. This also explains your bizarre resemblance to Dorothy.