As soon as snowy July is upon us, billboards pop up outside pub chains promising festive feasting delights, trying to tempt us with exquisitely photographed turkeys, who must have thought they were safe from being butchered and anally fisted post mortem for another few months at least.
For twice the price of a normal meal, you can sit down at a table where:
They have jammed more chairs in than usual, admittedly bringing back that slave galley comradery.
The staff are rushed off their feet so the wait between courses is tiresome, they are slow to react to your selfish request for mustard and you don’t even understand what the difference between English and French is anyway, probably labour relations, or working hours.
Getting to the bar is a ball ache, and you could probably just about watch a sped up episode of Friends whilst waiting to be served.
If you foolishly turned up to a works do you probably won’t be sitting next to that new blonde who started in HR, and instead get stuck next to that lying fat fuck of a project manager, who seems to be blagging his way through life. I hope you made a note of the bus timetable so you don’t have to wait 30 minutes in the cold when you decide to do a runner and enjoy at least half an evening at home instead.
As an alternate plan of action, how about going for lunch mid summer in a nice beer garden, with good service, with people of your choosing, for half the price? In fact, do that twice, and tell everyone what bullshit Christmas meals are, especially cherub faced children before you shove them into the Christmassy gutter.