Two more posts. Two more posts. Two more posts. Two more posts.

So… how’s November been for you… hope it’s been as bloody exhausting as mine…

That’s nasty of me… I take that back.

Naughty LaLa.

Anyhoo… yesterdays post got me thinking about drunk food and Tjo’s comment made me wonder what is considered drunk food in other countries.

Tjo’s wrote: “We don’t really have late night curry around these parts… just pizza, falafels & Chinese. You can find noodles and chicken balls strewn all over downtown on Saturday morning if you’re, say, walking home from somwhere around 7 am…”

I am not a big fan of eating once I am drinking I usually just want another drink… however I usually get something when someone else points me in that direction.

In Australia I would say it would have to be the humble old kebab or a curry. And they wrap those fucking kebabs so tight that one night I was just getting mouthfuls of paper (Hi Schmoopy)… so I chucked the whole thing into someones front yard.

Oops.

Maybe kebabs are very Sydney orientated because I know in Toowoomba for ages all we had open late at night was Subway, I have a vivid memory of buying a six inch meatball sub and then swinging it around in that big long plastic bag they put them in, prompting a guy to say “So you know how to swing a 6 inch Julia?”

How random… standing in front of a pub, pissed, with a sub in your hand.

But then a few years ago old Charcoal Chicken started opening up late at night… I once watched about 3 pissed people masticate a chicken with their hands on the curb.

In the UK kebabs are also popular but we used to order a serve of chips with shaved kebab chicken meat on top and then garlic mayo drizzled over it.

Is it any wonder I turned into a fat pig in the UK? (No. That is not a question I want you to answer)

So… what do you eat after a big night on the razz?

Short post tonight. I have had a hard and very fucking long day at work.

Laksa makes everything better.

How’s this for sad?

I had many a drunken curry from this place.

I just don’t know if Surry Hills will ever be the same without their greasy, runny vindaloos.

In a way, my stomach thanks you.