The ultimate revenge

Last weekend, Jane and I were down in the New Forest, celebrating the wedding of one of her former colleagues at a country hotel, and much fun was had by all. In fact, one of my favourite weddings for a long time.

I shall name no parties, Innocent, guilty or otherwise, but all was good until the tab behind the bar ran dry, and we bought our first paid round of drinks.

Me: "One whiskey and American, and two G&Ts please"

Barman: "Ice?"

Me: "Plenty in the gins, none at all in the whiskey for that is a BLASPHEMY"

Barman: "That'll be £28.20 please"

Me: "How much?"

Barman: "£28.20"

Me: "The fuck it is, what's the real price?"

But it really was £28.20, and I waved goodbye to the last three tenners out of my wallet, meaning we'd have to walk back to the B&B.

I'm not saying it clouded the whole weekend, but I took no joy punching owls until eggs came out on our visit to the New Forest Wildlife Park the following day.

So, after letting it stew for a couple of days, and shouting "TWENTY EIGHT QUID!" at anyone who might be listening, I settled for the ultimate act of revenge any man could take.

A middling TripAdvisor review.

"Beautifully appointed country hotel with wonderful amenities and attentive service. But that's all by-the-by because it's TWENTY EIGHT POUNDS for three drinks at the bar and it isn't even London."

Stick those three stars where the sun doesn't shine, Mr Hotel Manager.