And I'm drinking a cider, cos that's what people in Bristol do, and someone actually knocks on my door. And eventually after I've finished pouring I answer it. And some guy hands me a clip board and asks for my signature and I don't really understand what's happening so I just sign, and he hands me a box, possibly a new pair of custom designed shoes? And pretty soon I'm having dinner in Browns, and it used to be quite the place, but has since gone down hill. The house pour is Smirnoff, and the house gin is Gordon's. And the Kir Royale that I'm necking tastes like it's made with Chateaux Chaumet, and the fishcakes I find myself eating are pretty...average, and the Maitre d' can't even tell me what fish it is. And a chavy group of balding men are disregarding the establishment with which I hold an account. And I ask to move tables, and I'm shot a terrible look. And money really does talk. And long story short, it's a shit dinner. And so we skip desert and head to a Goldbrick House.
And, let me just say, it defiantly isn't made with gold bricks, it's actually pretty average, and the Mijoto's are disgusting, made with Gomme, pre-prepped juice and clapped mint (?). After an argument with the Waiter,who has one tooth missing and terrible hair, which I win, we head to the 'sun terrace'. Where it looks as if someone has dumped an Argos gazebo, and it's all pretty scummy, so I accidental knock my overly iced, glass of shit onto the street below, and watch as it smashes into a thou' tiny pieces narrowly missing a woman. And I'm pretty bored, so I leave and 'forget' to pay my tab. And I'm thinking Hey baby, this is real life.