Deciding to spend Saturday teatime at Ikea – because we clearly hate ourselves and believe we deserve pain, I think it’s the result of our strict Catholic upbringings (neither of us strictly had Catholic upbringings, but we’ve decided to start making things up to make our childhoods more interesting. If anyone asks, I was raised by Catholic weasels in the slums of Cambridge) – we pootled up the road on the buses of North London.

At one point it was pouring with rain on one side of the bus, and bone dry on the other. Well not bone dry. Sort of dry. Strictly, it was sort of raining. You just couldn’t see it. Not a great story, sorry, should have thought that one through.

At one point, in a dreary, rundown area, there was a terrifying looking pub, with a scuzzbucket bar’n’club tacked onto the back. There were notices outside promising a ‘Blazin Friday Nite‘, on which ‘Laydeez‘ got in ‘4 free b4 1‘. There was a banner suggesting the possible presence of a stripper in the coming week. It promised “cheap drink’s” (sick) (sic sic) It looked, to me, like the seventh circle of hell. I would rather poo in a hat and wear it than ever have to spend the evening in this place.

It was called, and I do love this: The Golden Stool.

Or ‘The Polished Turd‘, as it shall be known forever more.

I took a picture of it for you. Here it is:


(Yeah, sorry about that. I was on the bus).