Why Sgt. Pepper’s is Fucking Shit.


I hate it when you fuck up toast in a grill. God-damn it I hate it so much! I can pretty much cook most things like it’s no-one business, because I’m a bad-ass in the kitchen and that’s just how I roll, so to not be able to get toast just how I want it makes me feel like I’ve let my entire family down. I’m so lucky they’re not here today to see me. That makes then sound dead. They are not. Well, some are. You can’t expect someone’s entire family to be alive. It’s a bit far-fetched in this day-and-age of doing wars and getting cancer and lorry drivers raping then killing (mainly) prostitutes. no. I just meant that they are not in London now, watching me fuck up the toast. My tea, by the way, is impeccable. It always is. I am the tea master. I’ve been making it since about four years of age though so if it was anything less than outstanding I’d probably kill myself.

You’d have to, wouldn’t you? I mean, you’ve been making your favourite drink for twenty-one years and you always fuck it up. Speaking of, there’s a cocktail bar in Newcastle called “Sgt. Peppers” and I went in there once and ordered a White Russian. It was on the menu, so nothing unsual there, right? Until I asked for milk AND cream. “We don’t have milk” says the spotty, underage, cocktail-retard,

“That’s fine. I’ll just have it with cream then” I reply, quite cheerfully.

“Cream?” The poor, lost, Geordie fool repeats back with a tone of utter bewilderment. “We don’t have any cream.”

“Cream?” Say’s I, “Cream? Do you not have any cream? I’ll go grab some cream if you want?”. Now Let me just explain here that many-a-time have I been in a bar that has run out of milk/cream and gone to get some myself from the shop. It’s not a bother and I like to be helpful. And I like pounding White Russians. The drink. Not the people. Although I’ve never actually pounded on a white Russian woman, from the films I’ve seen it looks fantastic.

“Why do I need cream?” He asked with the same bewildered tone from before.

“Why do you…? What do you…? What’s in your White Russians?” I asked, completely dumbfounded.

“Tia-Maria, Kahula and Vodka” He said, as if I was stupid for asking.

“That’s not even white. I’ll just have a pint of whatever lager.” And that was when I decided to never go back to Newcastle. Unless the Brittish Red Cross were going to pay me £8 an hour to fuck around in the streets again. Then I obvioulsy would. I just wouldn’t go back to Sgt. Peppers.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s