A couple of years ago, I was standing on my balcony in Dalston having a beer. I overlook alot of the terrible, terrible clubs and bars we have 'round here. You know, a car stalls at the lights and someone with a truckload of no-name french lager pulls up, puts on a compilation album and calls it a bar, probably called "Car Superstore, or some crap." Then a bus of rejected applicants from Central Saint Martins rocks up and barfs on it, while pretending to be gay so they can get in.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
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