Today I was invited by some party supporters for a drink and photo op in a pub called Jester’s, and my how it went! It made appearing on Belgian TV seem like a vicarage tea party.
I began by queuing outside, and what a strange arrangement to have in a Great British Pub. Presumably there was a gang of Romanians or some other oiks in there crowding the place up and preventing honest, decent Britons from wetting their whistle. When I entered and descended some murky steps, I arrived at the bar. Pure bliss. I ordered a pint, only to discover it was a strange shade of blue/green. But, alas, there was nothing a chap could do to prevent this onslaught of mass produced French lager at that moment, so I had to neck it during the photo op. It was quite potent but I was able to wave the empty glass around, allowing the party faithful to take photographs.
As I made my way to the dancefloor, one of these blue concoctions was spilled over my tweeds and brogues, probably by one of the Polish EU-funded asylum seekers that crowded the place out to start with. Soon after I began to dance on the floor, the theme tune to a certain 90s American TV show came on. Thanks to the fact that Homosexual French Policemen now have powers over the Great British Bobby, the poor clientele had to remove their upper garments for fear of being thrown into a Marseilles prison cell with Big Pierre should they fail to show sufficient acceptance of dancing shirtless with other men.
At this point, I really needed a slash. I made my way to the Gent’s, only to discover that due to European Union legislation none of the toilet doors were in situ, as it would have breached Health and Safety for them to be as such. Thanks to this, the floor resembled an Amsterdam high street, and by this point, my brogues were beyond saving. I noticed many of the clientele were writing and drawing messages on the broken doors and walls, fortunately my assistant had a Sharpie on him so I was able to join in. Taking my cue from the text of the other scribblings, I decided to write “I’d rather be a Solent than a Lib Dem” on the broken door. My speechwriter behind me made a note of this witticism for my next address to the European Parliament.
I then stumbled out and back onto the dancefloor. After several minutes, a young woman comes and dances up next to me, she leans in and shouts her name into my ear, but I don’t hear her, so I respond “Who are you? I’ve never heard of you!” At this point she goes away to dance with who I assume were her friends, although you really can’t know these days. She had the charisma of a damp rag anyway, and looked like a low-grade bank clerk.
After this shambles of a pub night, I and the team stagger out to find a decent eatery. Unfortunately, some good honest cooking wasn’t to be found, not even pork scratchings. There was an eatery offering some fried mystery meat, but unfortunately the EU’s failed agricultural policy means it would probably be Spanish cat meat or something as ghastly, so we give it a miss. I got into the back of my German car and was whisked off to safety.
Note to self, take tweed suit to dry-cleaners and buy new brogues.