Next Day Delivery

So... I took the little sister out last night. I won't go into many details as I'm not entirely sure she had a good time. It was a little like trying to get Bambi to do the macarena in the moments immediately following his mother's death.

If we thought Camden during the day had scared her, Leicester Square at night was infinitely worse... despite her managing to catch the eye of a bunch of army lads out on the night. Perhaps 'despite' is the wrong word there...

Right now we're chilling out with Saturday Kitchen and feeling a lot more human about the whole situation. But we haven't quite gotten over the intense terror of having to have our dinner next to a table of people who were Awful. With a capital A. They were the kind of people who like to be brash and controversial just for the sake of it - but don't have the decency to do it at a normal volume.

Contained on this table was a woman we labelled 'Scrotty NZ'. Scrotty NZ moved over here 9 years ago...

9 Years I've been here... 9 years! I don't know any different... I just don't know any different. 9 years since I left New Zealand to come here.

She's been here for 9 years. Apparently.

She was Most Awful. The sort of woman who struggles to structure a sentence without the c*bomb in case it doesn't catch enough attention. Every word that came out of her mouth was loud, shrill and awful...

Undoubtedly the worst part of their conversation arrived just as the wee sister and I were eating our mains. It turns out it's quite difficult to chow down on paella while the person next to you is discussing, re-renacting their last trip to the gynaecologist.

The table consisted of two men and two women and at this point they ended up in a debate about whose intimate examinations were the worst. The men said that having an enema was an awful experience, Scrotty NZ couldn't agree with this... Scrotty NZ gave us the following monologue -

When you're a woman, they literally fist you... (with actions)

Do they?

When you're a woman, they just keep fisting away. Poking around in there... man, it's awful. It's... I mean you just lie there having your c*bomb pummelled. They stretch you so far apart that you can actually feel a breeze in your stomach.

At this point I choked a little on my Iced Tea... feel a breeze in your stomach?

Er, no... Scrotty NZ - that does not happen. Not unless you are either visiting a hobo in a white jacket who's pretending to be a gyno, you're having your examination in a field and all the other medical students are blowing up your c*bomb or (and this is most likely) you are so awful that your gynaecologist is taking out the rest of his month's aggro on you. Because you're vulgar and have no idea how to behave in a restaurant.

I'm furious with Scrotty NZ. How are you supposed to impress you younger sibling and try and make it seem like you've not made some really awful decisions somewhere along the line, if all you've got to show them when they come and see you, are heinous people and overpriced drinks? It's incredible how you can be as thick skinned as you like in front of 300 heckling punters, but failing to achieve the approval of just one family member is soul destroying.