It is customary in the UK, upon the cessation of a demanding week's labour, to visit a public house in order to obtain the status of a muddled mess-of-a-man, before adjourning from the establishment to be violently ill in the gutter. It is then fairly typical of the layman to venture on to one of a number of venues which for the most part go by The Khyber Pass, or The China Kitchen, or Uncle Ahmed's Kebab Emporium, or fucking Cousin Jemaine's Beef Jerk Portal, with a view to devour, with unscrupulous abandon, something's flesh.
'How incredibly boorish!', I hear you opine - and I, for one, would unequivocally concur with your sentiments.
Firstly, there's simply no excuse for being sick in a gutter. Not only is it antisocial behaviour but it's also a reckless waste of ale. People who puke in and around pubs should hereby be punished by way of a pool cue up the back-passage whilst being force-fed pint after pint of cheap white plonk. That'll teach you not to be able to drink properly won't it, you spotty student PRICK!
Secondly, this penchant for concluding the evening, although I've been known to be guilty on occasion, with foreign fare, frankly isn't cricket.
Take my most recent repast, for example.
Chips, steak and onion pie, 2 pickled eggs, and a fucking great gerkin. All washed down with half a dozen cans of lager, and enjoyed in the comfort of my own (well, someone else's actually) living room.
Traditional British fare, defined...