Last night I joined my local social club. It's got everything you'd expect from one of these fine establishments: an over-officious door policy; impressively tattooed female clientele with Burberry accessories; grown men in non-branded England shirts who'd rip out your intestines given half the chance; a giant screen permanently tuned to The Speedway Channel; pointless notices on the walls "Basket Meals!"; and - here's the clincher - Eldridge Pope Royal Oak for a quid a pint.
Oh. My. Bloody. Head.
I'm going back next week to kick the crap out of anyone who stares at my princess in a funny way. Leave it!
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