Before you set foot inside Thames Rockets’ bright-red death machine, you were an iron-your-socks kinda guy. A roll-on deodorant type. The only one to wear shin pads to five-a-side. But now? Those 50 fist-biting minutes aboard have changed you. Now you’re living every day like it’s your last. Washing whites with lights. Staying up after the 10 o’clock news. Eating toast without a plate. This is it. This. Is. Living.
Is there a better legal upper than a belly-burning bird bite? No sir. No sir there is not. And you’ll score some at celeb-riddled booze hole The Stag in Belsize Park. Deep-fried to perfection and drowning in a glowing sauce, not only are these the best wings we’ve had in London, but you’ll need a stomach sturdier than a nuclear bunker to get through them all.
There’s a special kind of joy attached to this one. The sort you bathe in after setting fire to a giant pyre. After cutting into a perfectly cooked hunk of beef. After triumphing over Parcelforce’s customer service team. And you can feel it, dram in one hand, Raymond Chandler novel in the other, at manly book-bars such as The Drawing Room on the Southbank, The Society Club in Soho, and Malt Whisky Library in Bloomsbury.
Happiness Is A Warm Gun? Naaaah mate. “Happiness is a well-spanked Rolling Stones pinball paddle” is how The Beatles’ song would’ve gone if they’d spent any time wrecking challengers on the coin-op arcade games in BrewDog’s subterranean den Two-Bit. Grab a frosty Dale’s Pale Ale from the bar, crack those knuckles, and proceed to destroy some nerdlinger’s ego. Hahaha, look at him! He’s sobbing!
Mass murder! Witch burnings! Poltergeist monks from rural Yorkshire! Here lies real glee, friend. As long as the trio of US comics behind the twisted, hilarious podcast The Last Podcast On The Left get involved. Leave the chin-dribblers to applaud Miranda falling on her arse again. You’re laughing at big, bad, lost-on-the-others stuff when the threesome bring their live show to London in October.
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