I had a table on Sunday afternoon that maybe, just maybe isn't living quite up to those lofty ideals. Mum, dad, little Sparkles Montana (not her real name) and little Tony Montana (probably not his real name but who knows) all arrived in late on Sunday afternoon with more than a crash, bang, wallop and flash of Nike. There was immediate shouting from mum,

"You'll nat get any Red Bull if you don't shut the fuc...oh hi table fer free mate...", says Mum Montana in a vocal style that was more reminiscent of the aliens from Mars Attacks than anything human.

The little darlings carried on screaming and shouting and stabbing little snot covered fingers into their portable games consoles/digital Ritalin.

"Free? Wha about me da?", piped up Little Tony Montana without actually ever taking his eyes of his PSP.

"Oh fuck aye....table fer four mate....nat free...he's in bogs so he is..."

Charming. Mr Montana was indeed in the toilets. I showed them all to a table. I wasn't quite sure where to take them, right out the back door would have been the preferable option but in the end I plumped for a table near the bar where they could be observed and monitored for shady activity. They looked, to be honest, like the sort of people who were likely to have a knife fight/steal the cutlery.

Obviously there was no way in hell was I gonna serve this lot. No way Jose. So, as I have been known to do, I palmed it off onto a waiter chum. She wasn't best pleased when she came back up from taking their order. But then again she owed me one from Saturday night when I took a two top she didn't want to serve, a decision she had come to from one conversation with the chap over the phone. She was right, he was a mouth breather and no mistake. "How do you like your lamb cooked sir?" to which he replied, "In a pan." Douchebag.

Anyhoo, The Montanas ordered, with a substitution on every plate on every course to the point were the food sent down no longer resembled anything from our actual menu. Between starters and mains Maw and Paw Montana went for a "feg". I don't know who was more relieved to be away from the other, the kids or the parents. They were all as loud and reprehensible as each other. And that's not a nice thing to say about kids who were at most nine and ten years old.

Maw and Paw had been away for about only two or three minutes when the battery on Little Tony's PSP ran out. This wasn't good. He made advances on his sister Nintendo games thingy but Sparkles wasn't having it and elbowed her darling brother upside his pointy little face. He didn't like it and replied in much the same fashion as his sister had. But neither cried, they just thumped for a bit but in the end she kept hold of her toy. Inevitably Little Tony Montana's sticky, snot covered, wandering hands found their way to the salt and pepper pots. I watched in horror as he opened the salt pot up and poured, not all, but most of the salt out onto the table top. He had already moved his cutlery, mainly onto the floor so he had lots of room for salt spreading.

And then the most deplorable and disgusting thing I have seen since Carlos Tevez pushed his ears forward thus proving the point that he could actually get uglier if he tried happened. Little Tony Montana started racking up the salt into lines, coke line. He used his mothers mobile phone at first but couldn't get the little lines as neat as he wanted so he took to using a butter knife instead. He cut and diced and spread until he had three perfectly formed little lines.

And Maw and Paw's reaction when they came back from their feg?

They nudged each other and giggled until Big Tony realises somethings not right, "Aye, ders no fucking saalt left now. You may ask the mawn fer more saalt fer were chaps cos I'm nat doing it."

I know what I saw. Waiter chum knows what I saw because she saw it too. There was no mistake...

That's some ghastly shit right there...

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