Big butch gay Oscar said there are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it – he probably forgot to mention missing kids, yachting tragedies, nasty hangovers and WH smiths; but to be fair he has a point. So, I can’t decide which was the better morning of – Brexit or Trump’s victory. Now the initial excitement is waning a little – I’d have to go with Brexit. Brexit was a plus-plus-plus, whereas Trump’s victory was a plus to Brexit – sort of like stumbling on a suitcase full of cash and then a few months later a long lost relative leaving you their entire heritance – including an abandoned castle in the outer Hebrides.
I mention all this not because Wetherspoons was pro-Brexit (I’d never eat anywhere for political reasons that would be hugely idiotic), but only because a certain tribe of snobs roundly despise the discount chain pub – preferring to flitter away their cash on overpriced pompous morsels of floating excrescence shat out of the backsides of giant gastronomic monsters and massaged into conceptual poo shapes by Manchester’s so-called food and culture scene. I dare you. Dance with the devil. Read any ‘review’ on the plethora of online food and drink magazines – (on the one hand, on the other, overall it was) go and you’ll be baffled as to how stupid you and apparently everyone else is.
These tiresome mouth trumpets of top ten lists, launching parades and ultimate countdowns are in essence just favours for favours and cock-sucking advertorials, but even the once mighty Manchester Evening News seems to have given up on journalism all together and is now content with blowing the city’s mediocre food and drink scene. So, it’s time to set the record straight – you heard it here first – the only place worth eating in Manchester is Wetherspoons (second to home, naturally) – and no, I’m not kidding or taking a back hander.
The reason why Spoons evades your culinary kaffeeklatsch is nothing other than good old-fashioned metropolitan snobbery. Curry Thursday, how ghastly, the snobs shriek, I bet the place is full of bloody bricklayers as well, best spend £50 at Vernacular across the street with the civilised educated people who voted remain.
But wait! Is that £6.65 for an 8oz Aberdeen Angus steak with chips and a glass of quaffable plonk? £1.99 for extras? Yes, and a perfectly acceptable steak it is too. You could double and probably triple that everywhere else, add another three quid for chips and £6.50 for a glass of red – if you’re lucky. Is it the best steak ever? No, but neither are those fancy places. Are the walls graced with local dulux encrusted art? No, but a lot of them are in grade-II listed buildings. Will anyone be voting Labour? Probably not, but you can always keep your comments down to a dull whisper – to avoid getting a good beating.
Food, sadly, has become political – and now denotes nothing more than the sad segregated society we now live in. The hotpot and all those other congregations of beautiful stodge are dead and buried, now head to a gourmet burger joint in the Northern Quarter, shout you voted leave and watch the blood sap from their insipid humourless faces. What you stuff in your mouth has always denoted social status, but when once the clients ate gruel and the patrons prime beef, now we’re all eating the same – just some are desperate, nay demanding to pay more for it – oh and make it gluten free, my stomach is pouting in a serene grimace of self-importance. They’re basically saying: I pay more, so I’m better than you.
The liberal worldview is well and truly kaput, now – the cherry on the cake – these ghastly eateries must vanish into the ether and begone – but then again, what on earth would I whine about. Let’s make 2017 even more rebellious and head to Wetherspoons.