Monday, 6 June 2011

Wong Place, Wong Time

So, for what seems like the hundreth time this year, as Tony and me were enjoying another Sunday lunchtime in our favourite pub,  our afternoon drinking session was runied by yet another pain in the buttocks, this time it being Mister fucking Wong and his coach party from hell.
Now don't get us wrong, but as much as we like to help most people in their hour of need, especially if they're female, twenty years old and with massive tits, the Chinese just don't do much for us. So when a very agitated coach driver came into the pub, and in very poor English said that his coach had broken down outside, what did he really expect us to fucking do?
Well, Tony was already very drunk, and when Wong said that he thought he had a problem with his coach's rear brakes, Tony looked at him, and quite rightly replied that he really didn't give two fucks. Mister Wong seemed very upset, and after raising his voice higher than Tony and me liked, he asked us how he was going to complete the rest of his tour, which included a ride past Buckingham Palace and Big Ben.
Tony looked at Wong and said that there was no fucking way he was going to even contemplate giving communism a helping hand, and when he finally said that Sundays are for drinking lager and not repairing broken down coaches, our little yellow friend from Shanghai finally got the message.
Of course, some people would say that it's a shame that forty Chinese tourists missed out on seeing some of London's finest sights, because of mechanical problems with their coach, but as Sid, the landlord of our favourite pub, rightly said, the Chinese are a funny lot of bastards, who should be avoided like the plague.

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