Return to The Spangles
Both readers of this blog will recall my trip to a local bar 'The Spangles' some time ago. On that occasion, the bar had a DIY theme. It was bedecked with hammers, saws and Ikea furniture, and frequentedly by burly men in hard hats who talked about self-tapping screws and shelving units. But upon visiting the bar agan recently, I was shocked and scandalised by its brutal transformation. Gone is the rickety furniture and the fake-oak panelled bar! Out with the eccentric dress-code (high-visability jackets only)! Instead, The Spangles has become a fishmonger.
Well, I say fishmonger. There's still a bar there, but it doubles up as a fishmonger's counter. Nowhere else on earth can you order haddock and watch it being gutted while sipping on a Guinness. Nowhere else can you survey the carcasses of the creatures of the sea while refreshing yourself with a lager. I spoke to the new manager, Simon, cousin of my friend Derek, who has pioneered this revolutionary new approach both to the selling of raw fish and the consumption of alcohol. Simon takes his role so seriously that he wears a mullet on his head.
'It all started, when I got drunk one night on a beach', Simon said, with tears in his eyes. 'I was staggering around on a seafront, when the twin smells of rotting fish and stale beer assaulted my senses. This is an interesting experience, I thought to myself, and I waded into the sea to catch a fish to knaw at like a savage beast. I sobered up pretty fast, I can tell you: there's nothing like a near-drowning to wake you out of a drink induced delusion. Anyway, there I was, floundering around in the icy waters, when I cried alound: "Why not combine the two components of this near-death experience - beer and an unneccessary desire to kill fish". I kind of liken it to a religious revelation, like stroking the face of God, or something. After that, it all fell into place quicker that a lemming running off a cliff. I only had to remortgage the house and spend my life savings and it all became a reality. I've made a drunken dream come true and there aren't many people who can say that, are there?'
'Indeed not', I said, though I secretly thought about the circumstances leading to the birth of my son. But not wanting to spoil the occassion with that grim thought, I duly drank to Simon's health. The problem is, it's the business that needs the defibrilators: in a week, he's only sold three sardines, two lemonades and a packet of giblets. But Simon's undeterred. 'I'll show them', he slurred, 'they shaid thed be na market fur it, but we'll shee. I'll do whatever it takesh - I'll do a deal wiv tha Devil himshelf if needsh be'. Now that's what I call selling your sole.
Both readers of this blog will recall my trip to a local bar 'The Spangles' some time ago. On that occasion, the bar had a DIY theme. It was bedecked with hammers, saws and Ikea furniture, and frequentedly by burly men in hard hats who talked about self-tapping screws and shelving units. But upon visiting the bar agan recently, I was shocked and scandalised by its brutal transformation. Gone is the rickety furniture and the fake-oak panelled bar! Out with the eccentric dress-code (high-visability jackets only)! Instead, The Spangles has become a fishmonger.
Well, I say fishmonger. There's still a bar there, but it doubles up as a fishmonger's counter. Nowhere else on earth can you order haddock and watch it being gutted while sipping on a Guinness. Nowhere else can you survey the carcasses of the creatures of the sea while refreshing yourself with a lager. I spoke to the new manager, Simon, cousin of my friend Derek, who has pioneered this revolutionary new approach both to the selling of raw fish and the consumption of alcohol. Simon takes his role so seriously that he wears a mullet on his head.
'It all started, when I got drunk one night on a beach', Simon said, with tears in his eyes. 'I was staggering around on a seafront, when the twin smells of rotting fish and stale beer assaulted my senses. This is an interesting experience, I thought to myself, and I waded into the sea to catch a fish to knaw at like a savage beast. I sobered up pretty fast, I can tell you: there's nothing like a near-drowning to wake you out of a drink induced delusion. Anyway, there I was, floundering around in the icy waters, when I cried alound: "Why not combine the two components of this near-death experience - beer and an unneccessary desire to kill fish". I kind of liken it to a religious revelation, like stroking the face of God, or something. After that, it all fell into place quicker that a lemming running off a cliff. I only had to remortgage the house and spend my life savings and it all became a reality. I've made a drunken dream come true and there aren't many people who can say that, are there?'
'Indeed not', I said, though I secretly thought about the circumstances leading to the birth of my son. But not wanting to spoil the occassion with that grim thought, I duly drank to Simon's health. The problem is, it's the business that needs the defibrilators: in a week, he's only sold three sardines, two lemonades and a packet of giblets. But Simon's undeterred. 'I'll show them', he slurred, 'they shaid thed be na market fur it, but we'll shee. I'll do whatever it takesh - I'll do a deal wiv tha Devil himshelf if needsh be'. Now that's what I call selling your sole.
posted by dadfield | 7:09 AM
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