London’s glittering Shoreditch’s very own franchise of the Chariots Roman Spa empire – the place for mannies, peddies, homosexual flavoured soup and bumming – burnt down on Saturday night. Almost to a crisp. It is almost a Quaver.
Well thank the lord above for small mercies, say we. Like the fact that our house-guest come Saturday evening was off his metaphorical trolley – giddy as a kipper, ‘e were – and decided to pop a Diazepam, as one does. ‘It’ll give me a boost,’ said he, oblivious to the sedative effects of said drug, especially when one is already giddy as a k. Split screen, he may as well have taken the most popular of the date rate drugs as he dozed – comatose, like – on the sofa as we – the royal we – had little choice but to order in a Domino’s (god’s own laxative) and munch in front of Casino Royale.
Can you imagine if none of that had happened? We might have gone out and not gone to Chariots Roman Spa! You know, the one that burnt down!