Celebrating in Restaurants

I’m rapidly running out of places to eat because I cross off places that sing happy birthday or some other shit to cunts who are celebrating.

We ate at a Turkish place last night and the fucking loudspeaker blurted out 4 times for some cunts birthday.

Sometimes a little cake with a candle on is presented and this is duly followed by clapping and cheering.

The recipients nearly always look embarrassed by it so why bother. Just let them eat their meal and fuck off.

If I’m not mistaken singing happy birthday is illegal anyway or used to be as it’s still under copyright.

Happy Birthday Copyright Link
(Fabulous link provided by – Part Time Admin – PTA)

I reckon that Marie Antoinette started it all. Fucking frog.
Sorry no link, it just pisses me off.

Nominated by: infidelgastro

Seconded by: Geordie Twatt

I’ll second this. Noisy bastards celebrating something not worth celebrating are complete cunts.

In particular I’d single out an authentic Burns Supper complete with piper for particular opprobrium. What the fuck is there to celebrate about a tax inspector who penned a bit of doggerel anyway?

Then there’s all that fuss about a bag of minced sheep’s offal, and some cunt in a skirt does his best to burst everyone’s eardrums. I know some people who subject themselves to this torture every year who even have no family connection whatsoever to Scotland, stupid sods.

Point of order, however. Marie Antoinette was Austrian, not French.

79 thoughts on “Celebrating in Restaurants

  1. It’s my custom whenever a loud birthday is celebrated in a restaurant to calmly saunter over and piss on the cake.

  2. A well worn American marketing idea recently brought over here like many other wanky Yanky ideas. (anyone for the school prom?) It’s for attention seeking cunts, strictly for cunts of the Facebook generation.

  3. Can’t really comment, I’m always too shitfaced on my birthday (and often 2 or days before and after) to even contemplate leaving the house.

    • If it’s not Turkish restaurants it Turkish barbers. Shifty looking cunts standing around with cut throat razors and hot towels.

      WTF is a Turkish barber anyway? Just a front for money laundering and hashish.

  4. When the singing starts and the cake is wheeled out from the kitchen, I always think about putting on my raincoat, cranking up “hip to be square” and taking the attention seeking cunts out with an axe, while shouting “try singing happy birthday now you fucking stupid bastards”, but like Patrick Bateman, it’s all a lovely dream!!!

    I’d be even worse if it happened in a restaurant!

    • Are you sure Patrick Bateman was dreaming 😉 I’m taking about the film here btw.

      The yuppie characters keep getting each others names mixed up (they’re all the same – mostly sociopaths so most can’t remember anyone’s name properly).

      Watch it again and notice the names getting mixed up 👍

      That laundry scene in the film is a giveaway for me. The owner doesn’t want to lose the rental potential so covers (it seems if you watch carefully) for him killing people in the flat.

      I think he did the murders (even though it was just a film of course).

    • Some of the stranger scenes from the book were cut from the film. He does seem to hallucinate a few times.

  5. I’d struggle to find one person who genuinely wished me a “Happy Birthday”….never mind a fucking table- full of the Cunts.

    • Me too Mr. Fiddler. Also as I approach my dotage I’m more inclined to ignore the impending doom that is old age.

      • I do remember putting a damper on an over-boisterous birthday celebration by announcing that I didn’t celebrate birthdays because, as far as I was concerned, all it meant was that you were a year nearer the ” cold,hard grave”.


    • Well its my birthday today and none of you remembered you heartless cunts!!
      I’ve had a great sunny day in the peaks, and then the pub where my meal was free!👍

      Im 52 today.
      But look 51.

      • “Happy birthday too you” Mis ,since no one else still bothered even with the hint 🥳
        That opening line is verse from a song that the all seeing “Stevie wonder” performed in his blind youth.
        I know you have it stacked away in the back of your collection 😉

      • I’m a newbie here. But Happy cunting Birthday. And I hope you don’t get a cake wheeled across a restaurant with someone maybe pissing on it or not 🤣

  6. I got my dick out in Winteringham Fields and the miserable bastards threw me out. On my birthday.

    • That’s nothing special, is it ?
      You’ve had your dick out, all across the land.
      You dirty blighter. 😀

  7. One of the reasons why Mrs. Yank and I do not dine out anymore is because of this type of cuntishness.

    Dining out in Yankland is a trial all round. It’s fucking loud for a start. Americans seem to be in constant competition with each other to ‘out loud’ their dining partners. I don’t expect people to eat their meals in complete silence. Equally, I should not be forced to hear every word of conversation from 20 tables away. But invariably you can. Even in fine dining restaurants, the ignorant trash can’t help but force their obnoxious behaviour on other diners. Often in the form of their fucking bastard cunt kids. Restaurants should not have high chairs. Period. But they do and what happens? Squawking and wailing at full pelt while I’m trying to enjoy some downtime. Cunts. Just fucking choke and die quietly why don’t you?

    The slightly more grown up variety invariably have a problem with the food or the drink and will whine and complain. You know that tone of voice. The one which makes you want to take a blunt steak knife and remove the bastards’ eyeballs. Some of the more adventurous ones will decide a restaurant is in fact a giant play room and start rushing around causing havoc. All the while, the pig ignorant parents just sit there filling their faces oblivious to their vile offspring’s negative impact on everyone else’s dining experience.

    Then we have the birthday crowd. Aided and abetted by the fucking wait staff no less. In some places, it’s not enough to inflict an out of tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ on the other customers. Oh no. Some places have instruments for this ‘special’ occasion. Jesus Christ on a dessert trolley! It’s not my birthday. I don’t care that it’s your birthday. Kindly fuck off and keep your cunting celebrations to yourself.

    • Afternoon IY.

      Do you get kids in pubs in the U.S? Or more likely bars I suppose. In fact is it just anyone under 21? I can’t understand the mentality of some people of ruining someone’s night by due to the behaviour of their kids. I know the Americans love a lawsuit so what if they injured themselves or staff member or had hot food tipped on them? I don’t eat out much either, at least at home I can screen out the cunts.

    • Good afternoon IY.

      On holidays many years ago with my ex-wife in Sorrento, we went for a last night meal in a seafood restaurant. We were put next to a table of Americans. We couldn’t hear ourselves think with the whooping, clapping and shouting. “Hey buddy” this and “hey, there” that. The din was insufferable.

      I finally had enough and asked to be moved. The Italian owner obliged, clicked his fingers and got the waiter to move our table and chairs to the veranda. It was a lovely summer evening, so no issue there.

      The waiter re-positioned our table and chairs and then the best bit:

      The owner came over to us and apologised – he said, matter of factly, “I am so sorry, but they are Americans”!!

      • I can relate, Paul. I really can. Americans do this “whoa” sound all the time for no apparent reason. Often combined with high fiving each other. It is very aggravating and needs to stop.

        The loudness thing though is so prevalent, when you do see some locals who are quiet, polite, respectful of their surroundings and considerate to others, it really stands out.

        I’m going to click Post Comment now. Whoa! Yeah! Whoa!

    • Afternoon/evening LL –

      Where I’ve lived in the US, pubs are rare. If they’re around, they tend to be the proverbial “Irish pub”. What exactly is an Irish pub, anyway? I have no idea. In Yankville, they tend to have sports bars instead of pubs. These places are not really drinking holes. They’re loud, lively places and tend to cater for a younger crowd.

      They don’t sell beer though, but they do have the name brands of chemical dish water on tap. Budweiser, Miller, Coors. Bless. Huge TVs everywhere showing what Americans call sport. The food menu tends to be of the fast food variety. Burgers, fries, chicken tenders. That kind of thing. Quite awful most of them.

      As for ye olde lawsuit, yes you are correct. The Yanks are a litigious bunch. Trust me on this – if a feral kid ran into a wall and hurt itself or bumped into a server carrying a tray of hot food and got burned, the family would sue the restaurant. Not only that, they’d win damages probably in an out of court settlement because the restaurant wouldn’t want the bad publicity.

      I was an a Tex-Mex restaurant years ago. It was quiet except for some bastard kids running around, crawling under tables, chasing each other, etc. I spotted the owners who were sat at a table and spoke to them about the bloody kids running rampage and annoying their customers. Guess what. It was their kids!!!!

      • Sums em yanks up I’d say.
        Irish pubs abroad or faraway , fuck that heap of theme park shit , I would work out where they were when traveling and then avoid like the plague.
        To be sure to be sure, so it is Sir.
        It costs less in the long run

    • A tip given to me by several Brit and Yank friends is never use an American buffet, especially in Las Vegas.

      My response is always in the same Noel Coward voice;

      ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, dear boy!’

  8. It serves you right for eating in a Turkish restaurant. Mediterranean grilled Doner kebab = pieces of local dead dog that’s been sitying on a spike for six days. Singing cunts are nothing compared to that future diarrhoea.

    • Yep, I was half expecting that and somewhat agree. Trouble is we couldn’t get in anywhere else. Not my restaurant of choice.

      • Even if the food were edible, Turks are drug-dealing, tax-dodging, Baklava-chomping muzlim cunts.

  9. I used to earn good money in the late 80′ (60/70k pa) and went a few times to what I would consider reasonably expensive restaurants (£100 per person expensive then?). They never really appealed and were still full of wankers waving their cocks around, loudly. I mainly didn’t bother after that and just went for the odd pub lunch. A few weeks ago I went with my wife to a Hungry Horse(?) and it was great. Our tastes are simple, the food was good, not expensive, the atmosphere was restrained and no cunts. Then again, it was lunchtime. The only thing that marred the meal was paying £15 in taxi fares because it’s the way we could get there. I really wouldn’t bother again in the evening.

  10. Agreed Moggie.

    I have a poor man’s palate.
    I don’t like fancy shite.
    Decent ale, steak pie and chips,
    Im happy.

    Those dirty buggers that eat oysters?!!
    Like licking snot off a tortoises back.

    • I love the simple things. I’m no chef but I am a good cook and I always resented what the cunts called haute cuisine. Why the fuck would I pay a tenner for 3 prawns and a lettuce leaf on a dustbin lid, smeared with what looked like either dog shit or somebody’s blood? My wife loves a fillet steak. Why? It has no fucking taste and costs twice as much as gold. I do a mean blue steak, preferably ribeye or rump, with a Diane sauce and a pile of mash.

      I think I’ve just come in my trousers. Must be the vodka.

      Wife went Oz on Monday. You’d think cat’s away, mice etc but it’s an opportunity to do lots of DIY at home. What a boring cunt.

      • Damned right, Moggie. Can’t beat a ribeye. Much more flavour and, IMO, cooked properly as tender as fillet.

      • I have one ready in the fridge for tomorrow. Lightly rapeseed oiled, salt flakes and freshly ground pepper both sides, on a rack, left for 24 hours. Cast iron pan tomorrow, high heat, 2 minutes to heat up then 1 minute on each side. Rest for 10 minutes. Slice or just stuff in gob.

      • I love ribeye or sirloin these days. medium-rare for ribeye, rare for sirloin.

    • This is where we have a difference of opinion, Mis.

      I find oysters more like licking phlegm of a tortoise’s back. 🤮

    • Talking of snot , that’s exactly what a chef said to me personally over a couple of pints.
      He said, working for twenty plus years in restaurants even the very expensive ones is that your meal is going to contain sweat, saliva or snot and if you thinking they the staff wash hands regularly well he continues they haven’t fucking time in the heated and frenzied environment that they are cramped in and the more expensive ones are the worst as seating for diners is paramount because of the astronomical rents in a fashionable part of town
      He went on “ I’m fucking delighted I don’t do it anymore”
      Bone appetite

      • There was a great Italian that opened round the corner from us in Blackpool around 2011. Kitchen at the front, including sinks etc. Diners could see everything the chef’s were doing, including washing their hands. Not cheap, but great food and, if you were watching, good hygiene. Of course, being a pessimist, you could never guarantee where the ingredients came from or were stored. But we both loved it. Only went once because we moved.

  11. Cunts who get down on one knee are worse (marriage proposals not BLM…although I bet Gareth Wokegate does that before his starter).

    I’ve seen a few cunts do this and the lady has always said yes. It’d make my night if one of them said no.

    I wonde if they do this to out extra pressure on the lady to say yes, the cunts. Or they do it I public for the attention?

    Either way. Cunts.

    I recall some twat trying to propose live on TV years back on some show, and the split arse said no.

    I fucking pissed myself laughing.

    • Of course, I’m taking about cunts doing this in public (restaurants for example) rather than in private.

    • Only saw this once when I lived in North Finchley. Me and girlfriend watching twat get down on one knee, spiel blah blah . She says “fuck me me you think I’m only worth a pub?????”. She was fucking furious, the guy was clueless, thought that the local pub was romantic”. I felt for him. Oh, no, I didn’t. I proposed to my 2 wives in private. It wasn’t a show. Twat.

  12. My Mum used to love subjecting me to this ordeal for my birthday.

    She knew very well my feelings about chutney ferrets and the like, but every year would book my birthday meal in a local Italian place with a (locally) famous mincing Italian waiter.

    After the main course, the arse pirate would burst out of the kitchen with a cake, sparkler atop and sit on my lap singing happy birthday ‘cheeky boy’.

    I hated every second of it with every fibre of my being.

    My old dear would be in fits of laughter with tears rolling down her face at my mortified embarrassment.

    Every year I would go along with it, just to hear her laugh like that.

    Now she is gone, I would tolerate a thousand cheek weasels writhing on my lap and singing happy birthday ‘cheeky boy’ just to hear her laugh again.

  13. Quizzes in pubs are shit too. Some garrulous turd quacking into a microphone and tables full of planks who’ve all paid to enter attempting to win two free pub meals.

    Second prize, four free pub meals.

  14. I like to go out to eat on my birthday.
    I take the girls, their hubbies and my darling granddaughter.
    They know better than to even mention that it’s my birthday.
    I’d be mortified, because my birthday is next week and I’ll let you guess the date.

  15. Happy birthday is the most boring dreary dirge imaginable. I fucking hate it with a vengence.

    • Talking about dirges, I agree about Happy Birthday, always puts me in mind about the Billy Conolly sketch about our National Anthem.
      Still makes me laugh.

  16. There’s a Chinese in a very dodgy looking area of Rotherham, just over the Sheffield border.
    Absolutely excellent!
    Or we’ll go to the Bowshaw, for a carvery. The chef isn’t afraid of salt, so the veg is great.

  17. Bowshaw it is.
    Younger has somehow got her paws on a 7 seater people carrier, and as she doesn’t drink, is driving the whole shit and caboodle, bless.
    We’re all going to be ratarsed!
    Good luck, Younger.

    • Fuck me. Youngers just been to visit in the people carrier. I was astonished it had tyres and not treads.
      What a tank!
      I needed steps to climb in and out.
      6 more inches of headroom, I could have had bunk beds and a kitchen in there, along with a shower and toilet cubicle.

  18. Happy Birthday Miserable😀👍

    I hope your womenfolk have been waiting on you hand and foot, all day👍

  19. I would be mortified.
    Forget the cake-a bottle of Single malt please. No sparklers 👍

  20. Birthday parties for adults are a cunt. Birthdays are for kids. Once you turn 10, they lose their magic. Your 18th is great because you can slug beer your mates give you a beer enema, just go fucking nuts. But after that, what is there? “WOOHOO! IT’S EMMA’S 27th!” Yawn. Why does the restaurant have to know about this fat drunken mess chalking up another year?

    Noisy cunts in a restaurant in general is enduring horror. Folk are trying to eat and talk quietly and often you get a bunch of jumped up office monkeys filling the air with their fake loud laughter and shit banter. Eat up, pay and piss off.

  21. Luckily ive only had this treatment in a couple of small intimate pubs, and it wasn’t overdone but sill a bit embarrassing.

    he worst i’ve seen is the poor staff at a place called Smith and Western in Chichester, yee-hawing and clanging cowbells. What a fucking din.

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