Why I Dislike Wetherspoons Pubs Like the Mary Shelley..
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You’re probably like me, the first thing you do when you sit in a Wetherspoons is to find a seat, move all the drinks and tomato ketchup sachets on to another table, and then get a wadge of napkins to soak up the random drinks that have been spilled from the previous occupants. Then you spend the rest of your hour in the pub realising how fucking sticky the wood table is.
Then you go to the bar, which is about three people deep, only to end up having to buy everyone a drink because people at your table have started to realise how busy its getting. It is then that you realise that the “cheap Wetherspoons” prices are not actually that cheap, and you’re paying near-on £4 for a double vodka and red bull – pain.
While you’re at the bar, you start making meaningless chit-chat to some other munchkin who is stood there waiting to get a round of about thirty different drinks. Conversation is crap, but it’s something to do.
Finally, you get served, and you have to say your order about four times to the Portugese bloke behind the bar who seemingly has English as his fourth language, behind Portugese, Spanish, and Urdu.
It is then that the realisation hits you… “How the fuck am I going to carry these twenty four drinks back to the table?”
So before the guy comes back with your change, you decide to phone your mate to get a hand. Only, because it is a Wetherspoons pub and everyone feels the need to shout their heads off when they speak, your mate doesnt answer as he cannot hear his phone. So you have to consider leaving your twenty-two other drinks unattended at the bar whilst you trek to your seat (which co-incidentally has probably been nicked by a group of girls drinking pitchers of Malibu and Coke).
While you’re away, you wonder 1) Has my drink been spiked? 2) Has my drink been spat in? 3) Has anyone had any of my drinks? 4) Are my drinks still there?
Thankfully, they are still there, and you (and your mate that you grabbed) manage to bring back the drinks much to the joy of the rest of the table, who are practically dying on the floor through thirst.
So, you have you drinks… and lovely they are too! But wait…. I smell the smell of something amazing! What is it? It’s a chicken burger and chips on table 39! Oh God that is amazing. It smells so good. Your mind ponders: “Do I get food do I get food? It’ll take £2.99 out of my evening drinking budget… but do I get food Do I get food?”.
You get food. But, this being Wetherspoons, it comes out BEFORE you get back to you seat! Nevertheless, somehow it tastes like the most amazing thing you’ve ever tasted in your life (Gary Rhodes eat your heart out, this is a Wetherspoons microwave special).
After eating it, like everyone else in the pub, you have about fifteen spare mayonnaise sachets next to your plate (along with all the drink you spilled). It is then that you decide to leave the mess and squalor and head to another venue, leaving someone else in the exact same position that you were in about an hour ago.
This really is shit, and this is Saturday night, and this is why you’ll never see me in a Wetherspoons ever again. Rubbish.
This article was written by Sam Davis on February 24, 2009.
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