Spanish Bar!

Henceforth it is my stated ambition to one day purchase central London’s infamous Spanish Bar (frequented by, as far as I can tell, over half the population of London at some point, and yet do any of us know what it’s called?). I will change absolutely nothing about the place, except that I will turn the damn volume down.


EDIT: Okay, apparently at least one of us knows what it’s called. From that I deduce, rhodri, that you have arrived there on at least one occasion sober. J’accuse!

(“Bradley’s”? Really? You sure it’s not called “El Flamenco Ruidoso Del Toro” or something?)


EDIT EDIT: Confusion clearly abounds. After exhaustive research (the first site that came up when I googled was no use at all, and I actually had to go on to the second—can you believe it?) I can announce that the bar we’ve been going to all these years (with the exception, apparently, of rhodri) is called COSTA DORADA.


EDIT ³: All right. I have reluctantly to conclude that, rather than having made a general observation, I have merely managed to reveal that the group of people who didn't know the name of the Spanish Bar—despite everyone's habit of referring to it simply as 'the Spanish Bar’—consists pretty much of me.

I do try and avoid projecting my own experiences onto everyone else, but sometimes you can’t avoid it. It must be one of the natural hazards of being an observational comedian. “And what about being able to taste colours, huh? Aren’t you just tired of anchovies every time you see green? ‘Come and see our lawn.’ ‘Oh man, I can't right now, I’m sick of fish. Can I go and stare at your yellow rug to clear my palate?’ What’s that about? And what about colour-blind people? When they see a cricket pitch do they get, like, grapefruit? You know what I mean? You do know, right? Huh? Right?”