Friday, March 25, 2005

If It's Already Dead, You Might As Well Eat It (Part One)

Fate has a delicious sense of irony. Having paid £26 for the privilege, we expected Amy's 21st birthday meal in Bournemouth on Saturday to be an ecsquisitely refined affair, held in an beautiful and charming location of awe-inspiring aesthetic value with a relaxed, understated yet subtlely cultured ambience and a soothing gentile patronage. Our chosen establishment was the Red Panda (note: where the hell does this obsession with naming restaurants and pubs after ludicrously and plainly impossibly coloured wilderbeast come from??? Ever seen a 'Red Panda'? Or a 'Blue Boar'?? Extremely angry pandas and terminally ill boars notwithstanding..). Our expectations in the latter category, however, were annihilated into oblivion within ten seconds of entering, as we noticed to our horror a hideous and revolting obstacle in our path. A monstrous, betracksuited figure clothed entirely in the most impossibly disgusting of all shades of Basildon sewage-water blue-green dexterously fingering the mother of all cancer sticks and wearing the most utterly arbitrary and pointless orange sunglasses. A man singlehandedly redefining the meaning of 'incredibly annoying ostentatious arse'. Yes. The truth will out. We entered the restaurant confidently expecting high culture and walked straight into bloody Jimmy Saville.

Overcoming the reflex nausea that was an unavoidable consequence of such an unexpected and entirely unwanted surprise, we squeezed through the small gap in the room not occupied by Jimmy Saville's ego and arranged ourselves for an evening of wanton and gratuitous super-calorific gorging. I am extremely sorry to inform all vegetarians everywhere that I rendered your lifetime work and admirable sacrificial abstinence absolutely pointless in the space of about two hours, engaging in the most wanton and entirely unnecessary duck, beef and lamb dish genocide imaginable.

In order to justify this merciless devastation, I refer you to my (slightly tenuous) and brilliantly amoral life maxim of 'if it's already dead, you might as well eat it', a maxim incorporating the secondary utilitarian statement 'since someone's going to eat it, it should be eaten by the person who'd enjoy it the most and not worry about such issues as a) a conscience or b) morals'. I am that person. Utilitarianism is a fantastic theory, residing on the basic premise 'when presented with a choice, perform the action that will bring the greatest happiness to the greatest number'. We take such intense pleasure from consuming innocent animals that no pleasure on the part of vegetarians from our not eating animals could possibly overcome ours. Therefore, not only do I ingest meat and take pleasure from it, I am MORALLY CORRECT to do so and would be a WICKED and IMMORAL EVIL PERSON to refrain. A great consolation when you're chewing brazenly on the leg of an innocent young sheep brutally massacred before it could so much as say 'baaahhhh' or appear as an extra in Emmerdale.

Continuing our path of destruction, we relocated to Jumpin' Jacks, a place which can only be described as the chav equivalent of the ludicrously titled 'Zion' in the Matrix trilogy. In other words, a superbly pretentious underground orifice with a populace of numerous ridiculously dressed individuals performing seriously conceived but uniformly hilariously performed arhythmic gyrations to spectacularly unlistenable noise that can have emanated only from the most noxious armpits of music hell. Yes. That's right. Perpetual Rubbish'N'Boring, Garage Shite and Tip-Slop, punctuated by the occasional decent rock song just to infuriate us that bit more when the threatened and belated recovery was immediately quashed with the inexplicable and bewildering playing of yet another godawful R'n'B 'anthem'.

R'n'B Anthem (n.): A hilarious ironic misnomer for excruciatingly boring, uninspired and incomprehensibly popular minimalist ear-shattering noise accompanied by a singer desperately attempting to disguise the unbearable drudgery of the instrumentation behind him/her and the glaring lack of any kind of chorus by performing increasingly irritating vocal gymnastics (see Beyonce). Often excused with the words 'it's got a beat' (correct, rubbish percussion is indeed involved, as are drums in ALMOST ALL MUSIC YOU IDIOT DUMBARSES) or 'he/she's got a really good voice' (so bloody what?!? How does that compensate even infinitesimally for the appalling musicianship behind him/her?!? The singer could sound like a Janet Street Porter impersonator projectile vomiting Crazy Frogs with individual maddening Crazy Frog ringtones for all I care).

Unable to join the Burberry-capped brigade in their insensate rituals (see Ed's University Survival Guide Part Four, hosted at, we spent three hours in a trancelike state, maintaining our slim hold on sanity by performing short breathing exercises every half hour or so and visualising ourselves in a happy place with a decent music soundtrack. Never have I made so many utterly unnecessary toilet visits, knowing perfectly well that my bladder was a barren wasteland, just to gain some brief respite for my poor bleeding ears. Fortunately, my brain's excellent repression feature, blocking out all things potentially harmful to its well being, has enabled me to almost entirely forget the club's proceedings. And, finishing with another convenient philosophical theory just to suit myself, if I can't remember it, it never happened. Aaaaahhhhh. Peace.

Ed's Mood: Tranquil

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Franz Ferdinand - The Dark Of The Matinee

To be continued...


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