Poor Mr Privilege

You again?! We must stop meeting like this.

I’m going to have a bloody good moan, so brace yourself. I’m going to moan about something that is very much a first world problem. I’m going to moan anyway. I don’t give a single fuck what you think of my ingratitude, my ivory tower or my liberal elite status. If you don’t like it, read one of those proper blogs that has an instagram account and pictures of people looking far happier than they really are.

Right, let’s get to it (that’s how I speak about my blog AND about the physical act of love, in case you’re interested).

Last night I attended an event. It was the relaunch of a restaurant. Why does a mentally ill part-time cleaner get to attend a swanky bash? Because I’m well connected, see? I’m like a member of the Mafia, but with less violence and more bitching.

I slipped into a pair of second-hand boots that I recently acquired (the black ‘dealer boots’ with the broguing) and I even got into the three-piece (the tightish dark grey with the faint dove grey stripe). Control your urges, readers, I want you to concentrate. Have a cold shower and come back, if it helps.

Mrs Viper and myself leapt into the Viper Mobile and tore off into the night. The journey took about half an hour, but there was an extra fifteen minutes of so of parking. The timings are important because they will give a sign of why I got grumpy. We arrived promptly at six, ready to be impressed. The restaurant was looking modern and elegant. There were hints of its heritage, too. I won’t name it, because I’m NOT slating the restaurant, just the company that ran the event for them.

The free glass of cava was handed over and we did the social thing. I don’t like the social thing, but you have to do it when you go to an event. Apparently I’m excellent at appearing witty and at ease. I don’t feel witty and at ease, I feel irritable and bored. We milled around. We milled some more. I was driving, so after the cava it was a dry night for me. Soft drinks were supposedly free, so I went to the bar to get a tonic water. I received carbonated water. I didn’t moan, I only wanted the drink as something to toy with while I waited… and waited.. and waited.

We had been promised canapes. They were tiny. I mean they were the size of crisps. To be honest, a piece of monster munch would have been more filling. The single canape that I had was very tasty (a lightly curried puree of mushroom on a crisp pastry sliver). I only had one canape because I was only offered the one. I wasn’t about to chase down one of the staff and leap upon them, like a lion on a gazelle. There were very few bar staff, so I had to wait for Mrs Viper’s cocktail for more than ten minutes.

It got to eight o’clock and the promised buffet had not arrived. I had not eaten since eleven thirty in the morning (my three year old and I favour an early lunch, don’t judge us too harshly). Mrs Viper was in a similar position. She was tired and hungry from working in the day. We decided to head home and supply ourselves with a sumptuous repast from our stores. The children were with grandparents, so we managed a nice evening in.

Now, let me do some moaning. We were really invited to the event because the organizers want us to write reviews for them. I can’t write a review. It wouldn’t be fair to the restaurant. The owners are good people, but the event did nothing to showcase the food. I stayed for two hours and only had one canape. I was not prepared to stay longer for a promised buffet, no matter how free or how tasty. I’d given them forty five minutes of travelling followed by two hours of small talk, I had nothing left. Despite being financially strapped, we had paid for petrol, a cocktail and car parking. In return we had received a glass of cava and a canape. We should have saved the money and gone to Aldi.

Part of me thinks: You wanted a free meal and you didn’t get one? Boo-fucking-hoo. Poncing around in your free boots and your old suit, thinking you’re AA Gill. You’re not. You’re an even bigger twat.

Another part of me, an angry, sexy part, thinks: You want me to review food, you had better feed me! I didn’t beg for a ticket to your shindig, you invited me. That makes me a guest. That makes you a crap host, you shit-house.

Perhaps the event organizers thought that people would arrive fashionably late. They didn’t. The room was full by half six. Mrs Viper and myself were not the only ones to leave, not by a long chalk. A number of old-media and new-media types slunk away. The city has other bars and other restaurants. I don’t know how many people stuck around. Presumably they had eaten a big lunch. Maybe they will think the people who left early were fools. Foolish or not, I had a great supper (olives, pastrami, stilton, camembert… I could go on, but I’m boring myself, so heaven above knows how you feel, you poor thing).

This was meant to be a food review blog post. It isn’t. It’s a boring blog post where I’m complaining about not getting what I wanted. Everyone here is a loser. The restaurant can’t get recommendations and reviews from myself, Mrs Viper or the other people that left. The various people who left don’t have content for their blogs, columns and magazines. The readers don’t have anything interesting to distract them from the tedium and terror that is modern life. Poor us. Poor, poor us.

Meanwhile, children’s hospitals are being blown up in Syria. Desperate migrants are selling themselves to travel to a better place that just doesn’t exist. Fascists are taking power again. You keep fucking moaning, mister. You’ll be the first up against the wall when the revolution comes, you whiny, pretentious, self-obsessed shit. 

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