Thursday, 18 November 2010


When you walk in to a pub and you find the barmaid wearing her coat you know the worst. I walked in to the Trench of Despair to find exactly that. Now in Paris they wear little waistcoats and in Vegas they wear bustiers and 8 inch skyscraper stilettos, all in the name of some kind of sense of service. Here, she's wearing her bloody coat, complaining of being ill, and the place has a faint tint of sewerage. I despair, I really do. Then she said 'Would you like a roll?' in the most abject way I could imagine, she was as ambivalent as an east end girl can get.
So you sit there nursing , in the dark and the cold, your miserable pint of stella and think, how has it come to this?

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