Liz Jones writes for The Daily Mail. Not a newspaper I usually read (I must stress this!) although I must admit it was the first paper I read regularly as an adult. I was nineteen and for the first time ever I was commuting to work, so I felt I needed a newspaper to accompany my journey and my new, grown-up lifestyle. In the newsagents on that first day I pondered all the newspapers on offer. The Sun and The Mirror were definitely out, as was The Times because it scared me a bit. I ended up picking The Daily Mail because I thought the calligraphed title looked pretty (oh, the shame!)
After about a week I abandoned it; The Daily Mail made me depressed. Its stories had a heavy touch of dark, uneasy gloom about them, and there ought to be a picture of the front page next to the word 'misogyny' in the dictionary. It was just...nasty. Occasionally I pick up a copy in the gym (where they leave free copies next to the 'Energising Juice Bar') and note that it hasn't changed much; today's edition for example featured a picture of a bare-faced Pamela Stephenson with the headline 'Make-up Strictly Needed'.
But I digress. Liz Jones writes a regular column for The Daily Mail, called 'Liz Jones Moans' which is probably pretty self-explanatory. She's very open and frank about her private life, regularly slating her ex-husband in print and wondering why women have children and shop in Lidl and can be a bit overweight and, well, live normal lives where they don't have their legs waxed regularly. She goes on and on about designer clothes and rants about how she hates the homeless and men in general.
And yet I quite like her. I never take her rants seriously; in fact I find them quite endearing, probably because she comes across as a bit of a lost and lonely, slightly unhinged soul who wears her designer clothes like some sort of shield. We could even be friends; I'd bring a bit of humour into her life and make her eat chocolate and she'd bring a bit of style into mine. Probably.
Anyway...all this is a rambly prelude into a story I'm going to tell about going for a meal last night which, when I think about it, might come across as a bit pretentious. But like Liz's columns, it isn't to be taken seriously. Right? Ahem...
My friend Matt and I went out for dinner last night, to a 'swanky' restaurant in Leigh that was doing a special 'three courses for £12.95 deal'. We decided to take advantage of a bargain like that, so off we went, eyes gleaming with eagerness.
It all started well. The restaurant looked beautiful; low lighting, plush furniture and twinkly candles abound. As the nice waitress took my coat and showed us to our table, she asked if we'd like a drink. "Can I have a glass of Rioja, please?" I asked, only to be met with a blank look and in that second, the lovely facade dropped just a little as the waitress squawked "You wot?"
"Rioja? Do you do that by the glass?" I asked again, a little confused now. "I haven't heard of that" she said firmly, as though I must have meant something else. She looked at me, I looked at her and then she said she'd get the manager before I had the chance to say "Oh, just make it a glass of house red".
The manager comes over: "What was it you wanted?" he barked. "Just a glass of Rioja" I said meekly, feeling like a suspect interred at Guantanamo Bay. He shook his head. "Not heard of that...are you sure you've got it right?" When I said yes he said he'd go and check. He came back claiming to be holding a glass of Rioja which I tasted after he left and it definitely wasn't. Did I say anything? No, I'm British!
Then came the ordering. There wasn't anything vegetarian on the main menu, so I ordered the cheeseboard as a main course (something I actually like and will do sometimes even if there are vegetarian dishes available). "You must be MAD!" exclaimed the waitress loudly, looking at me as though I'd just escaped from Runwell. Her shocked voice drew curious glances from the neighbouring tables and suddenly I felt like I'd shrunk. "No I'm not mad, I just like cheese" I said in a small voice.
The cheeseboard came; it was horrible. The Cheddar had been left in the fridge uncovered and the Stilton tasted out-of-date. Plus it was accompanied by what looked and tasted like Robertson's marmalade. I didn't enjoy it. Did I say anything? No, I'm British!
Not risking dessert, I ordered a coffee. "Just black, please" I said when asked if I wanted milk. The coffee duly arrived with milk in it. But you'll be pleased to hear that I did say something this time; the smell of milk in drinks makes me retch so even I couldn't pretend to like that. I sent it back, the response from the waitress being "You should have said you didn't want milk"
I paid for the meal, and I left a tip. That's how pathetic I am, and that's where my story would differ from one told by Liz Jones, who would have kicked up a right old stink. But you see, that's why we'd make such good friends.
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