Porthouse (Winchester)

Predator

I know what you’re thinking – and you’d be right. I'm not the best looking fella on this planet (I’m even a tad ‘unique’ on my own).

But let’s be realistic: ugly aliens and ugly blokes, we really aren’t all that different. There’s plenty of us and we've all got our basic ‘needs’. There’s someone for everyone, I always say.

When I'm having some 'me time' on earth, swerving the stresses and strains that come from ruthlessly butchering military vigilantes, I’m just the same as you; give me a sleazy pick-up joint with two things on tap; Fosters (tops) and a supply of easy broads.

Fair enough, it’s all about the ‘thrill of the chase’ in my professional life, but in terms of love? I just want an easy ride!

In Winchester I've found the perfect place to satisfy this preditorial predilection. It’s called the Porthouse and God it’s a rough boozer. But it's also a real banker for the ugly, desperate and angry, particularly when the (green) sap is up.

The beauty (behind this hideous pub) is that birds just don't seem to care what you look like once you’re through the depressing front door. In my case, that works both ways; I may not be a looker to them, but who’s to say what they look like to me. Stifling heat and heaving bodies you see; they play havoc with the old thermal vision.

Sweaty bodies piled threefold against the bars; it all blends into one amorphous haze of crimson eye-candy in my strange eyes. *I dread to think what I’ve touched-up on some nights!*

I’ve no idea what ‘shape’ I’ll end up with at closing time. Not that I care. All I need to know is that nine times out of ten I'll be making the multi-species, two-backed beast with someone (or something!) one hour after last orders.

True, the morning-after can be a real eye opener for the pair of us. Out of the darkness and without the alcopop goggles, my appearance can prove a bit challenging to sensitive types (particularly sweethearts from the local teacher training college). But, let me tell you something fellas, some of the shapes I’ve woken up with don’t look that rosy either. Particularly the very, very round ones.

*God, to look at em there, rubbing their bleary fat eyes, propped-up on the edge of the bed – like sitting (plump) ducks!*

I know, I know. I’m being un-gallant. That’s not very ‘Winchester’ Mr Predator….. I’m sorry.

(laughing) Too bad. Who cares! The way I see it, everyone looks a little rough first thing in the morning. And at least I still boast all me own teeth (two rows, one multi-directional) and a full head of dazzling, snaky hair. *Good gnashers and a lush barnet being yer USP, when you’ve nothing else going for you in the ‘boat-race’ arena*

I digress. Back to the review

*…..Back to The Porthouse too? Of course! You bet; every Friday and Saturday *;

To my mind, there are just one or two areas for improvement.

Firstly, as it stands, I’m afforded no special status by the staff; I have to queue with the rest of the angry mob to get in. That’s got to be wrong. Secondly, they make me pay the entrance fee! Me! The Predator. To be honest, it’s all a bit rich,..for a monster celebrity like me,..and I can’t help feeling cuddly-old Mike Wazowski wouldn’t have the same trouble!

But the real beef I have is with the door staff. Every week it’s the same, pointless argument about footwear. Get it into your heads guys; these boots are NOT steel toe capped.

They’re made from glass-reinforced human skin. Grrrrrr.

Predator’s rating for the Porthouse – 7 / 10

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