I wended my way to Westfield again in a vain effort to keep the ailing economy on it’s feet, such a financial hero that I am. I decided that lunch was the order of the day and so descended upon Pho, a pseudo Vietnamese noodle bar establishment.
As with all of these eating places at lunch time there was a queue, apparently no one phoned ahead to inform them of my impending arrival, how rude. Of course, I should have burnt the place down just for that, alas I had left the office without my incendiary kit so I decided to wait. Sadly, as it the wont of such places, the ordering process is miserably designed, people taking drink orders at one end, food orders at the other, a stream of irate people in the middle not quite sure what’s going on. In the queue to the front of us there was a hag so old and senile the very ordering process confused her poor deluded mind, behind there was a Dutch woman. On the other side of the counter was some nice chap, who did not speak the finest English, trying valiantly to marshal the orders correctly and smoothly.
Of course I handled this perfectly well, I waited calmly, read the menu, decided on what to have, prepared for my turn. A smooth transaction was had, tranquillity was rife in the world. The plebe behind however should have been chop sticked to death at once by a hidden Vovinam assassin.
As we know, the Dutch are an odd bunch at the best of times, but normally they seem pretty well educated, fluent in several languages as a rule (I remember the wonderful day when a homeless looking mugger in Amsterdam outsmarted a friend and I with fluent German and English, if only I knew Welsh maybe we could have foxed him… I digress) . I wondered then why she was totally unable to read the rather plain and straightforward menu, a menu that has been designed for stressed shoppers for ease of use and speedy comprehension.
Pancake smoking Dutchie – “Yesh hello, Do you have any Dutcsh beersh?”
Serving chap – “Sorry?”
Pancake smoking Dutchie – “Heineken?”
Serving chap – “err”
Pancake smoking Dutchie – “Do yoush have any Heineken? Beer, yesh?”
Serving chap – “We have Halida… it’s is popular…”
Pancake smoking Dutchie – “…”
Pancake smoking Dutchie’s friend/care worker – “I think we’ll have two of the popular ones thanks…”
The look on the face of the pancake smoking freak was one of shear disgust, like that of someone who’s just been subjected to a bout of projectile vomiting by a gang of unemployed begging estate agents. How dare they not have a nice Dutch beer in a Vietnamese noodle bar! The outrage of it! I’m writing to my MP at once, we must put a stop to this discrimination…
I note a couple of things about this interaction:
- If you want Dutch beer, fuck off to a fucking Dutch eatery you stupid fucking women, there’s one in Ealingtown, one in Leicester square, hell there’s bound to be more, I’m sure they’d all be more than happy to accommodate you and you stupid needs.
- Heineken? Are you serious, you actively choose to drink that awful crap as a first option? It’s not even the best beer to come out of the brewery let alone the Netherlands. Do you hate your taste buds or something?
- Counter staff should be allowed bludgeon to death one person a day without fear of legal repercussions, it’s the only way we can stamp out these imbeciles from the gene pool once and for all.