HALL OF SHAME: THE RULE

St Andrews

Dave Hynes

Formally The Gin House it has now changed name, but i'm afraid it is just as bad as i remembered, possibly worse- which speaks volumes for the I.Q levels of the so-called renovators. Its new orientation sees it marketed as, quell supris, a trendy wine bar/ funky discotheque paying too much for four fat bast*rds to guard the entrance and having a strict policy of only letting c*nts in.

Beautiful barmaids, food by day, and a large extension area downstairs are the new features but most impressive is the novel grandiose upstairs area, making it possible to perv on cleavage and drip semen into the pints of the last vestiges of King George VII’s gene pool. In many ways the piece de resistance of the St Andrews pub ethos, which in concise summation, is to have a potentially really good joint considering the affluent demographic, the stupendously fit birds, the student vibe and the execution of a Gattuso slide tackle that would even make the Italian stallion cringe. Could be/should be/why the f*ck isn’t it any good?

Who knows. Anyway, it’s a massive dollop of slimey poo which perpetuates itself through the wallets of some of the biggest fanny-faced Aryan/Oxbridge/Devil’s rejects who like to frequent here, I think they call it ‘Old Sarum’ or something to discuss whether there is anybody on earth who, as a collective, might steal their crown as really massive tw*ts. Achieves the ‘bad pub award’ with consummate ease.

If it rules anything, i would hate to think what the roost was like.

PUB REVIEW: AIKMAN'S

St Andrews

by Dave Hynes

This legendary pub is like a basement ghetto for those students and locals trying to avoid a particular brand of homo arsus, the St Andrews posh student, kitted out it titillating polo jodhpurs and wellington boots, finishe dwith splendid Elizabethan haircuts, inbred for maximum titness and with huge mammary glands hanging off the testicles of the males.

Yes, Aikmans is a different kettle of fish entirely from the usual St Andrews outfit. It's not neccessarily great because sometimes it really brings you down with its morose offerings of normality and it's fairly old-manish outlook. Nevertheless, it is for its incongruity which sets Aikman's apart from the rest; welcoming, friendly, warm and cosy it puts two fingers up to the latest phenomenon in St Andrews, that ghastly neurosis affecting the town, I am referring, of course, to the stupidity of the gastro-pub craze. What nonsense.

It’s a strange old place is old Aikman's.; dotted with a few strange individuals, lots of hippies, music afficionados, and sweaty locals who seem to come to check out the talent. It is unique in St Andrews as a pub unlike any other, virtually unchanged for the last thirty years.

The manageress, known authoritively, affectionately and with justifiable aplomb as ‘Barbara’ is a genuinely wonderful human being who deserves every success in life. In truth, she does an excellent job, working tirelessly to ensure smooth runnings. Aikman’s is filled with an excellent array of beers from around Europe and especially different areas of German. The bottle selection is brilliant with a variety of fruity and spicey classics. The whisky collection is equally impressive, and comes with local expertise. It is the venue for the St Andrews University society, one of the few decent ones left.

Aikman’s is pretty good for its gigs as well, although if your unlucky you’ll go when its just one tw*t with his guitar worshipped by loads of posh and/or working class tw*ts, probably strangely enjoying the vibe’s class cross sectional tw*t appeal , drinking Erdinger and genuinely not knowing how not to be a tw*t. Sometimes though, it’s absolutely brilliant, great blues riffs, folk songs, rock and roll and its hard not to just completely forget yourself and get down with it all.

One major problem; it’s excruciatingly hot, especially downstairs where if you drink enough premium lager you can pretty much trip. I did and i saw the whisky bottles sliding off their holsters, down the walls and into the fanny of the grand daughter of the earl of Derbyshire. As I dived into her precious parts, I saw methodine-flavoured alka-seltzers, I saw tomato-kissed red lumps of stout beauty, I saw ochre-shaded pints of the good stuff and blond tuffs of luscious lager, I saw the beautiful tones of a connoisseur brandy, I saw the ruff pools of buckfast swimming inside her womb….i saw so much it broke my mind on a jagged sky of hallucinogenic dogshit

So this is what Aikman’s is, a riddle inside a mystery inside an enigma inside a really strange Scottish fishing town, recession- proof, tourist-friendly, golf-orinented, hedonistic place filled with a few absolute diamond geezers, like the magnificent Barbara, but mostly filled with wankers. Truly encapsulates the self-perpetuating dichotomy of dilemma the St Andrews boozing scene promotes; exorbitant, cheerless and yet strangely charming. Aikman’s is at least a real pub, a pub’s pub, and a good one at that. As soon as you walk in you feel pissed, it has that I’ve-been-drinking-whisky-even-though i-can’t-remember-touching-a-drop-syndrome, so you sit down, already pissed yet sober, and…drink a whisky. Now that’s a decent boozer- great food too.