[Images: Nathan James Page]
1. ‘So, where did you two meet?’
It’s 2015 – where d’you think we met, at Lord Cumbersmythe’s garden party over a flirty round of croquet? No, the typical London courtship dance goes one of two ways: a) you were both off your mash in some terrible basement bar; or b) they caught your eye as you were dispassionately swiping through Tinder during the ad break in ‘Gogglebox’. Either way, it’s not great dinner-party repartee.
2. ‘Unexpected item in bagging area’
Self-service checkouts have been around for a while now, but that cold, calm insinuation that you’re a dirty stinking shoplifter still sends a shiver down the spine every time the computer dobs you in. The attendant with the magic code couldn’t give a shit how much fruit you steal, but it’s only a matter of time before the machines gain Terminator-esque sentience, and when that happens a misplaced packet of fig rolls could mean a bullet in the balls.
3. ‘The destination of this bus has changed’
Imagine if you were on a flight and the pilot suddenly went: ‘D’you know what, I can’t be arsed flying all the way to Bangkok – let’s settle down here in Baghdad and you can wait around for someone who gives a shit, yeah?í This is more or less the same thought process that directly precedes you being turfed off the bus in the middle of Acton at 2am.
4. ‘Last orders!’
It’s been ten years since Tony Blair gave landlords permission to sell booze at us until 6am, yet still the only pubs happy to serve you a pint past 11pm look like the sort of place the Krays might have considered ‘a bit dodgy’. Cue a stampede the second that bastard bell rings, as a roomful of hopped-up Pavlov’s dogs descend on the bar, debit cards in hand, all too eager to shoehorn in a pair of pints for the road. Which is exactly where they’ll end up, spewed out, half an hour later.
5. ‘I’m having my birthday drinks in Shoreditch’
Right, and what’s for dessert, an hour and a half queuing outside a burger joint because Joey Essex tweeted that it was ‘proper nice’? Then maybe a trip to a nightclub that for some reason requires you to surrender your bloody driving licence to gain entry, on the off chance you decide to rent a car to do a lap of the smoking area? Jesus. Go to a proper pub like a proper person, you disgracefully ageing hipster.
By David Clack – and yeah, he met his girlfriend on the internet, so what?
Take a look at the top five people you see in West London.