16 hours ago
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Myths of Perth #1
The Scotsman Is a Really Cool Place to Drink
FUCK the Scotsman. Almost impossible to get a seat in the holy grail - outside. When you do have a seat you realise you are surrounded by Maurice Meade asymmetrical haircuts, scarves and weird older dudes that work at RTR. You decide to get a drink - oh, that's right, you are not trusted to carry your own drink to your table outside, regardless of whether it is less than 1m to the door. Well, at least you can enjoy a relaxing cigarette, right?
NO. YOU CAN'T. YOU ARE FORCED TO STAND ON THE CURB TO SMOKE WHICH DOESN'T MAKE ANY FUCKING SENSE. You are then in the direct path of pregnant mothers pushing a monster truck of a pram with her fat kid staring at you and elderly citizens who are carrying oxygen tanks on their wheelchairs. Why should they be forced to share your passive smoke? The punters at the fucking PUB who have chosen to sit OUTSIDE THE BAR with other DRINKERS and SMOKERS should share your smoke. Instead you are setting yourself up for a lawsuit from said pregnant mothers and elderly citizens.
But you can smoke upstairs, right? In half the tables on the balcony which equals = 3 tables. They are fought over more than an Iona girls virginity by a slightly elder baby moustached Scotch boy. When you get one of those tables you realise the cheapest drink is an $11 pint and the only food you can get is teeny tiny morsels of something that once passed for chorizo and some bread and olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Where the fuck is the poutine?
Fuck it. 6050 is fucking dead to me. I'm going to the fucking Inglewood to eat their delightful chips and peppercorn sauce and drink pints of Bulmers with one hand while smoking with the other. Why the fuck else did God give me two hands?