Nights Out at the Glasgow Empire.

A minor Major love affair.


Humour is dead - it's official!
I ventured out of Pither Towers properly (i.e, not just to buy fags) this evening for the first time since the celebration of the birth of Santa. I know, a tad agoraphobic, but the festive ferago gets me like that.
Anyway, myself and soon-to-move-to-Orkney chum (I have this effect on people) opted first for a trendy gastro pub. It was as full as John Wayne Bobbit's pants! We sat there, supping our pints of Scruttock's Old Dirigible, when the beautiful, young serving-type person wandered out to front of house. She produced a white, marker pen and, on the menu blackboard, added the words "and onion" to the dish of the day, which, hitherto, had been billed simply as "chicken".
Said gorgeous-type serving girl passed by where we were sitting soon afterwards and so I piped up: "Has the chef just had a brainwave?", thinking it would generate a chuckle. "Yer what," she countered. "...or has he just found an onion in a box down in the cellar?", I continued, trying to keep the mood alive. I explained the reason for my suggestions, to which she replied: "Nah, nah. I day think there was onion innit but he says there is so I 'ad to change it. We've 'ad a row 'bout it." Never mind. Moving swiftly on.....
We flowed on to another pub soon afterwards but found, unfortunately, chuckles were in similarly short supply. The boozer was again all-but empty but I was still in jovial mood and so enquired of the guy behind the bar: "I'm here for the Saddam Hussain Memorial Quiz. Is it in the back room?" His reply? "No mate, quiz night is on Thursday."
A pint each of Fruity Old Dangler Destroyer and we moved on again, this time to a supper where I knew I was sure of a warm welcome. We wandered in and the object of my affections came bounding over, kissed me passionately, rubbed up against me and then sniffed my testicles. It was not, as you might suspect, a blind nymphomaniac with no sense of smell, but the pub dog - Major. Major and I have a love affair which no-one will ever tarnish. It came time to go and so I bade farewell to the gaffer, only to realise that I didn't know his name, desite having frequented his boozer for years! It comes to something when you know the name of the pub dog and not the landlord! Sorry Keith.
One final port of call, very near Pither Towers, and this time there were a few people about. We walked up to the bar, the pimply youth behind it said: "Would you like a winter warmer?" and Orkney-bound chum retorted: "Yes, but we'll have a drink first." Reaction? Fuck all! Nothing! Blank look. Please God, help.
It is sad when the most fun you have on a night out is when a cross-breed, four-legged, flea-ridden pub regular licks your testicles! What ever happened to laughter? Henceforth, let the curse of a lack of humour descend on Grantham.