ABSOLUTELY everybody loathes the loud group of uber-dicks who have settled right in the middle of the pub, it has emerged.
Spreading themselves across a large table and several stools, the pale-jeaned, Top Shop-shirted lads, who could be recruitment consultants or ‘property developers’, are treating normal lager like it is super-strength yelling fuel.
Although one of them just got on a table, there is no sense that they might start smashing up the pub. However in a way that is a shame because at least then the police would be called and they would all be hauled off to the cells.
Nikki Hollis, sitting with her friend trying to have a quiet drink for which she had just paid the thick end of ten pounds said: “What gets me is the constant, raucous guffawing.
“I think I’ve only laughed that hard twice in my life. Yet every ten seconds they bring the plaster from the ceiling with a collective belly laugh that makes me hate them with the heat of a million fresh-baked pasties.
“Anyway, I’m on a hen night next weekend. Believe me, we will be fighting fire with fire.”
