Flaming Great, Abbey Foregate, Shrewsbury.

It was late; 12:31am to be precise.  A wonderfully clement evening had been enjoyed.  My party of four had covered far-reaching topics as only professional, experienced women of a certain age can.  G & T’s had been ordered, sipped delicately, straws twiddled and hair flicked to make a particularly important point.  We’d frequented only a couple of select establishments before finding ourselves sandwiched between a hobo and a Glaswegian pianist in The Nags Head.  This tends to be a stop-gap; a cheap drink now your not arsed about the bird’s nest the light shower in between pubs has created in your previously slick barnet.  Now you’ve passed that deliciously giggly stage and are seriously wondering if you can squeeze in yet another gin and whether ordering pork scratching’s to dip into it would be poor form? When you’re hankering for salt and utterly desperate to remove your ridiculous footwear and just be free; to undo your zipper, sit back and take a proper breath of air fully into your lungs.  Whilst still tottering here the insipid taste of juniper and it’s rancid quinine accompaniment now making you retch a little; all your previous enthusiasm now waning faster than a synthetic erection after 9 turgid hours of Viagra hell it was suggested we head off to C21….


“Yay” I said with mock-excitement.  Clearly these ladies were made of more sterling stuff than I.  They were still fresh; hair smooth, make-up in place and feet clearly not screaming with the burning pain of potentially three blisters. “Why not?!” we all agreed.   Finishing off our drinks we moved back through the main pub like a kidney stone through a ureter.  Literally making physical contact with everyone in there. 

Out in the fresh air I could now add ‘chilly’ to my chagrin list.  ‘Come on you silly cow’ said my kind inner narrative.  So with shoulder’s back and an almighty hair flick I continued tottering with ‘ouch-after-ouch’ after my counterparts whilst admiring their lack of grimace as they sashayed down the bank.  As the Club loomed ever closer I spotted the sign.  ‘Flaming Great’.  I was doing okay still definitely completely and utterly up for a boogie and yet more bloody gin.  Then it happened; a giant waft of food; fried carbs, chargrilled meat and piquant sauces.  The ‘Heroin’ at the end of the night.  The ‘cheese board, strong coffee and the Elizabeth Shaw mint’ of an ending to a great night drinking with the girls.  As we levelled with the door into this Mecca of the ‘post-sesh’ a part of me I didn’t recognise suddenly announced in an overly confident voice that ‘she was going in here and not to C21’.  Luckily my greatest adversary in life was on the same page; the relief on her face will stick with me until the day I die.  

After kisses all round we waved off our hard core (and younger) contemporaries as they continued strutting with style and grace into the late night debauchery of the club.  And we hopped into the warmth of the takeaway to survey the wares of the very friendly proprietors.  We were by no means drunk therefore chose the safer option of the ‘chicken kebab’; naughty chunks of well-cooked poultry nestled happily in it’s pitta pocket sloshed liberally with garlic mayo and finely shredded salad.  With a chaser of chips in polystyrene.  On this night the stars were aligned for me and my lovely pal.  The taxi was there; it was warm and we clambered like a couple of ungainly buffalo into the back with our two orange boxes of prospective ‘cellulite’.  

Back at her kitchen table we chowed, noshed and generally inhaled the lush concoction of sodium, starch and carbohydrate with a sprinkling of protein whilst nodding encouragement to each other and smiling broadly at our greasy chins. 


What an end!

What an evening!  

Would I recommend this takeaway establishment?  By jove; I would.  The food was fresh, tasty, prepared to order, hot and excellent value for money.  The atmosphere was friendly and the service quick and came with a smile.  Will I be returning?  Yes!  In approximately 5 days, 12 hours, 47 minutes to be precise…!

Disclaimer: I’m not a Narcolepsy sufferer normally but it should be noted that after eating I was found face down in the empty polystyrene container…be warned.


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