Expense:
I don't like getting buggered. But everytime I eat out here in Britain, the meal will almost always culminate in rough sodomy. Indeed, when the cheeky twat with the cheap waistcoat presents me with a bill, after much scrutiny I clasp hold of my ankles and wait for the big nobs to smash the back doors of my bank account to hades and back. Too expensive - eating out in the UK, unless it's in an el cheapo gastro pub chain (Whetherspoons anyone?), is often not an option for most.
The middle classes:
To be honest, love, I couldn't give a chicken's kunt if your Henry has reached eighth grade in his piano lessons, or that your Sally is now the best at pioretting in her ballet class - but I've got a hunch that I'm going to be hearing about the little shits for the duration of my dinner. Middle-class women: scurge of the English dining room.
Taste the wine:
Unless it's corked, which it never is, does anyone ever swirl their recently poured quota, consider its shade, sniff deeply perchance to detect a fruity note, and take a delicate sip before declaring that it tastes like fucking shit? No, of course they don't. The learned squires who order wine in British feasting emporiums are quite proficient at distinguishing a good year from a bad, thank you very much. Therefore the charade of wine tasting is quite obviously reserved for people who, upon finishing the bottle, insert it firmly up the botty.
Cutlery and crockery count:
I've got a plate for bread, a plate for cheese, a plate for salad, a plate for cake. I've got a spoon for soup, a spoon for tea, a spoon for sundaes, a spoon for dessert. I've got a knife for butter, a knife for fish, a knife for steak, a knife for bread.
I've only ordered a bacon butty. What do they want me to do with it? Dissect it molecule by molecule before spending a year bowing to the fucking thing?
It's food, for Pete's sake. I can make do with my bare hands if needs be.
The waiter:
Regardless of the class of establishment, I invariably do not like the waiter. In a low-end dive, he will often present me with my fish and chips with his thumb in the mushy peas. He will cough. He will emit irritable sighs, regularly. He will sniff and mumble and stammer.
In a more sophistcated eatery, the waiter will approach you with a look of wanton lust about him; he will lisp at you to sit down before complimenting your attire... hell, that fucker would even laud the style of the hair on your nuts if he could see it. He will continue to suck on your proverbial penis throughout the meal before the bill is brought over and his modus operandi is finally revealed... he is essentially a cheap slut. Do not tip the smarmy wanker.