Exchange (Winchester)

Mr Blobby (Noel's House Party)

Welcome to the dream factory. That’s one of that f***er’s new catch phrases isn’t it? One of the things he says every day on HIS hit TV show with the red boxes. The one he does without me.

Welcome to MY version of the dream factory. That’s right the boozer. Or perhaps I should re-phrase that; welcome to the broken dream factory, the place I come to forget being so unceremoniously dumped by Mr twat and all his f***ing media chums.

In the pink is hardly an expression you’d use to describe me these days. Check out that photo! Shocking innit. I’ve lost a shed-load of weight. Maybe if that Fern had been through my Deal or No Deal, she wouldn’t have needed the stomach staples either.

I still resemble a penis with genital warts, albeit slightly more flaccid as I approach middle age. Yet my name is still a euphemism for a lady’s 'delicate time'. Go figure!

Anywho, I’ve come to the Exchange in Winchester for a few this evening. I haven’t been here for years, but I'm not expecting much. It’s reputation has always stunk and even the landlord can’t bear to drink in here, preferring the infinitely preferable Froggies bar down in the Square. But, if I remember right, it’s dark which should hide my polk-a-dot complexion.

I’ve been solo this evening already (comme d’habitude). Preparing.

Sunk a helpful four at the dreadful O’Neills pretend-Mick pub across the road. So now I’m ready for a bit of Blobby-related clownery, with a twist. Like old beardy, I’m going to use painfully unfunny comedy to try and win over my audience (while secretly dying just a little more inside).

Now just let me consult the messages written on my wrists.... Yup, that’s covered it. The fairies are in uranus. Now, in we go….

* Blobby deliberately trips as he enters the Exchange, gets up and stumbles to the bar *

“Well, well, well, hi barkeep; I see you’ve still got the old power five behind the bar? That’s a positive board, if ever I’ve seen one.”

“Eh?”

“The power five mate, the power five. There they are. Fosters, Stella, Summer Lightning, Mars Bar Vodkas for a quid ….and….oh forget it. Pint of Fosters top please.”

“£2.95”

“£2.95 eh?…..Hmm…let me think while you pour ….It’s a good offer, thank you ….It’s certainly worth considering….but….NO DEAL.”

* Blobby turns to the empty pub throwing his arms around manically, whooping and screaming “Come on” like a prick in a pink suit *

“£2.95 …. PLEASE!”

“Oh, yeah, all right, calm down. I’m just trying to inject some drama into the evening. Oooh, wait a moment mate...that's my phone ringing..... it’s him...”

* Blobby takes his phone out of his pocket. Clearly it isn't ringing, but he presses the Nokia to his ear, while pushing his forefinger to his lips, gesturing at the barman. *

“Yes, oh…Hello Mr Banker….Right....he he he……thank you.…..goodbye. * turns to barman * Listen mate; that was the banker; he says I can exchange the pint if I want….hmm….I think I’ll take the exchange. Make it a pint of Summer Lightning.”

“£2.95 for your Fosters Top son. Or… kindly…. f**k off.”

“Well, I’m not sure...It’s a good offer……OK, DEAL.”

* Blobby sits at the bar and sinks his (short-measure) pint quickly *

Time for Blobby to take a blobby methinks. Now, here’s tension for you, a visit to the Exchange’s outside privy. Opening the box door here; you never know whether it’s gonna be a quarter of a million dollar crap or taking your life in your hands to spend a penny.

Back in the 1980s when I first came here, these were easily the worst pub bogs in Winchester. Absolutely despicable in fact replete with festering trough, mouldy walls and – of course - devoid of shitter door and bowl seat.

Then came a 90s re-furb and something of a revelation. Beautiful new tiles, clean trough and a fully kitted out cubicle. They even installed a sink – with soap dispenser! The promised land, for any pub these days.

But here’s the thing; if you’re a landlord you gotta keep up the upkeep. ‘Cause now it's back to square one at the Exchange. A sh**ty hand is not just a risk when you're gambling on unopened boxes. You could end up with one in here; there's not a sign of paper in the cubicle. 

So here's Blobby, Blobby, Blobby's message for the landlord – in fact all landlords. Clean you filthy bogs. When it comes to repeat visits, for middle-aged old soaks like me, it’s becoming a bit of a deal breaker.

By the way, I left my blobby on the soaking floor by way of protest.

Blobby’s rating for the Exchange – 0 / 10

Sputnikski

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