Lager Guided Darts

December 11, 2007

Last Saturday Eric Bristo entered me. Not in the biblical sense you understand, that would have hurt, and he didn’t actually get inside me like one of those serial killers who wears their victims skins over their own faces. Anyway, in either sense he would have split me in two, my bulls eye will never be ready for the Bristo.

Back to the matter in hand….  Daleks were not built to walk up stairs, Gary Glitter wasn’t designed to be a children’s worker and Keith Chegwin wasn’t engineered to be a barman. My own dysfunction is an inability to play any sport. I occasionally go running where I can guarantee to win every time as I only ever go out on my own.

I am worse at sports than Eddie the Eagle on crutches or Tim Henman after a multi limb amputation. The runt of the sporting litter if you will, the last little piggy in lycra to suckle on the sports milk of genetics.

But last weekend something mysterious happened, a magical moment, my moment, not a goal at Wembley or an ace on Centre Court, but I won a pub darts competition against my mates. I can only put this down to the butterfly effect, or that I slipped into another dimension for a few minutes in time.

More probable though was that after my eighth pint of lager, iron bru cocktails (amaretto dropped into lager) and other such glamorous drinks is that I had forgotten who I was and therefore had gained some sporting confidence.

Thank you Eric, but you can get out now, and please can the hangover go away.


Antony Worrell Thompson, Pug Faced Ginger Tosser

November 20, 2007

Antony Worrell Thompson (AWT), you are a pug faced ginger tosser. In absence of a feedback page on your website(, and I am not sure I know your home address (apart from AWT, Henley on Thames, feel free to send him post), I will leave my feedback right here.

I was visiting the Windsor Grill with my future in laws. We sat down for some pre dinner drinks, as I sipped on my G&T the restaurant plunged into darkness. At first the emergency candles created an atmosphere but then it was, well, just dark.

So now, the Polish waitress, who hadn’t really grasped the English language, could no longer rely on our pointing at the menu to communicate, due to the darkness. I mooed like a cow to signify my chosen dish but wasn’t sure what sound a mashed celeriac made, so my vegetable choice was down to her. Needless to say the wrong food appeared along with a random bottle of wine.

The head waiter had been drafted in from another restaurant owned by AWT, as the the other head waiter was apparently sick, hopefully not in my food. Was he experienced? No. Rude? Yes. As the evening progressed the comedy of errors worsened, culminating with the Pole (who had pretended not to speak English all evening), questioned me in a well pronunceated voice as to why I hadn’t left an e-tip via the chip and pin machine. As punching waitresses is frowned upon in this town I paid up and left.

So AWT, next time I come (you really think there will be a next time?), and you want to fleece me for Steak and Mash (or however you dress it up on the menu), I will bring my night vision goggles and brush up on my Eastern European Language skills.

AWT, sort it out! You pug faced ginger tosser.