Monthly Archives: August 2008

Whitbread to revamp Beefeater chain

Whitbread to revamp Beefeater chain, revanchment

By S. M., with profound, weak-tea defacements by “Quilty”

Monday, 20 October 2003–08

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Whitbread has very nearly abandoned plans to axe and unboard its Beefeater restaurant chain. Now, instead, it’s almost and very nearly repeatedly reaping and refreshing itself like a Japanese mall-fountain sucking its own dick. With an incontrovertibly 150-strong estate, Whitbread won’t abandon plans to axe its Beefeater restaurant chain. The cost of it is up to £45m, utterly nude. Four-stone wearing jeans.

The leisure group needs must press ahead with rolling out its rollicking new ad-base. Six trial sites provided “cartoonesque hits” with customers; dead on the page.

fatal microbes, 1978

fatal microbes, 1978

Their recent trading update revealed that sales at the “quintessentially English” chain are running more than 5 per cent ahead. It’s more or less crying, interrupted by a deafening laughter. New Journalism, writes Arthur Krystal, is just a shitty euphemism for memoir. Boulle Shannon, managing editor of Whitbread’s restaurant arm, Sebadoh, including Lou Barlow, said, “The sales uplifts persuaded that one company, Andrew, to hang on to the thirteen-year-old babychain, which and which was once without itself, and increasingly sodden. I considered just killing it.”

“We are rolling out the new format, known internally as ‘B2’,” he added. The Beefeater name will stay the same.

‘A Real Creeper Lagoon’

The sale of the chain’s fifty worst-performing sites has also helped to bust up the sales turnaround. “Like a shivering pile of shit,” I almost added. After the dot-com “bust,” so many sopping felines roamed the streets of Hayes Valley, menstruating and mewling.

The Beefeater is renowned for retro-delicacies like prawns and multiple gateaus. “There are multiple gateau formats,” I’d be compelled to point out at some point down the line. In a different context. They’ve utterly vanched the old black, white and red colour scheme; now everything practically shits itself in brighter colours and American-style neon. For a birthday present, I’ll consider the “Semicolon Sex Kit,” which is shaped like a semicolon: comma-shaped dildo, full-stop-shaped butt-plug.

‘If you think so, well, then, so do I.’

I’ll eat anything. “Vegan cunnilingus.” A triple-host of new sauces won’t spice up my speciality—char-char grilled steaks—but not so fast:  char-grilled Halloumi Char (a Greek cheese plus the fish of the same name) is ramping up (rocket, ramps, boom-bust XycleXhips). Your Face Tomorrow in the Battle Think of an Elephant Vanishing. “I googled ‘crying into a beefeaters’ update’, thinking it would help, and it has,” explained the board, as if that were helpful. Beefeaters’, the passé menus, and the decor: utterly bedevilled. They have been straight-up bedevilled. The witch’s vagina remains silent on Halloween —  New Year’s Eve in “witch-time.”

The hotel chain has been Whitbread’s worst-performing business since the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001 ravaged the global travel industry.

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Cop Out

Because I got a press pass to a show I didn’t at first realize was free, I felt a vague obligation to the publicist to write something about the show. I have nothing much to say about the show. This is a blog.

I wrote the above “paragraph” about a week ago. It’s now been two weeks since the show. I am not going to force myself to write something special about the show right now, esp. since it’s  1:36 p.m. and I’m at work and am going to Georgia for the first time in my life in a week and a half. I have never been to the South, even though the Occluded part of Georgia I’m going to doesn’t sound technically “Southern” in a Research Triangle sort of way.

Last night had a beer with G, who returned Friday from two months in Sudan. He says everyone is skeptical of the census, people mistrust the SPLA as much as they mistrust the Sudanese government. Cobloggers had well-informed, well-placed questions. People in his village drink warm beer, so he had a shopkeeper keep 10 beers at all times in the fridge with the Cokes so he could buy a cold one on his way to dinner every evening. I had two more interesting details here but have since deleted them, since I don’t have a sense of how sensitive, how occluded, how etc

My life is irrelevant. Last night, was worried it was bedbugs but concluded ~4 a.m. it was mosquitoes. What’s a good free Mp3 hosting service? I want to post “Dr. Root’s Garden” by Chrysalis, but seemingly can’t. The final comment on this post links to the whole record.

Boredoms in L.A.: We sat near Hella’s Zach Hill, who was at the end of the spiral of 88 drummers surrounding the band. Other drummers flagged throughout the 88 minutes, but Hill held it down, no danger, no remote indication of ever letting up. Very impressive.

J.R. Valenzuela, one of the finest photographers of our generation, was cowed into leaving his camera at home by the publicists. He went home mid-show to get it, and the show had ended by the time he returned. In fact, I had finished my cold beet borscht and half egg sandwich from Canter’s by the time he returned. Everyone scattered and he and I spookily perambulated LACMA and the Tar Pits.

This billboard presided over the Boredoms in an obvious, noxious (yea, obnoxious) way. The stage lights were in the same palette. The silhouette wasn't listening to the boredoms. She was listening to <a href=

This billboard presided over the Boredoms in an obvious, noxious (yea, obnoxious) way. The stage lights were in the same palette. The silhouette depicted in the ad wasn’t listening to the Boredoms, or the 88 drummers. It was listening to a podcast of Liza Richardson.

J.R. Valenzuela, Night Mastodon, Los Angeles, 2008. Nota Bene wordpressed has cropped these images; click them to see them for reals

I was briefly annoyed with J.R. — why are we walking moonily around the tarpits at night? Shouldn’t we be waiting for the bus? Then I realized I was being a douche and was glad we were there. As we were sneaking back into the Pits while the crew broke down the stage, an LAPD cruiser pulled up and an officer asked us in a really guileless, plainly inquisitive way what was going on. I told him, and pointlessly added that the Boredoms were from Japan. Then an unarmed security guard kicked us out.


Coming soon on Good Jobbbb:

  • More Internet
  • More occluded life-jams
  • Jasmine Tea Houses
  • Concert memories
  • Sheafed Knifes
  • Leaflet Porn
  • Campesinos
  • Campesongos
  • Campebongos
  • Chupacabras (marijuana cigarette dipped in wine/malt liquor–blend)
  • Tea-tree oil cigarettes (aka Natural Mentholz, no toothpix allowed)
  • Knee Braces
  • Dental Braces
  • Neck Braces
  • Neck Laces
  • Shoe Shines
  • Torpor
  • Torpid Speedos (Aka Torpedoes)
  • Nudity
  • Fruitidy (aka Fruitopia)
  • “Sporne Identity”
  • Sweepsteaks
  • Nut crouchers (secret)
  • Drugs
  • “Teen Drogas” (TV)
  • Plumes of Kindness
  • Vanishing Plumes of Kindness