I finished work on Friday and made haste to the public house where I militantly dispatched five pints of traditional English ale and feasted, with wild abandon, on one 'grab bag' of Walkers salt and vinegar ridges, a packet of bacon fries - the finest crisp in the history of maize-based snack-treats - and a pickled egg. I then went on to lose 2-3 at pool - the pockets in this country are far too small to gain enough purchase on the cue ball for pin-point positional accuracy, unlike the American-style tables in southeast Asia - and win a game of darts which lasted so fucking long that it felt like several generations had passed before I eventually got lucky and hit a double-one.
With an assortment of pub-based frolics, fodder and liquid refreshment now ticked off the obligatory early weekend 'to do' list, the time had arrived to adjourn, as rapidly as my ever-expanding stomach would allow me, to the nearest curry house in the locality.
Indeed, the cessation of any night out worth its salt invariably lies at the hands of Vikram and his ilk scuttling about in tight suits - tending to the culinary wants and needs of very fucking drunk people; requirements which customarily feature "a stack of poppadoms and a fackin' Vinadaloo, please Raj, me old mucker".
I, on the other hand, consider myself something of a south Asian cuisine aficionado, and scrutinized the menu meticulously before eventually opting for "stack of poppadoms and a fackin' Madras, please Raj, me old mucker".
But being somewhat more culturally diverse and sophisticated than my curry guzzling peers, the backbone, the meat and potatoes of this repast, if you will, was given added girth by way of a sag paneer, a garlic naan, onion bhajis, a peshwari naan, and two pints of Cobra beer.
Poppadoms with a decadent melange of condiments - heavenly.
First-class fodder...
Join me next Friday, when I will be sampling the wares of at least three different kebab houses.