The story of Captain Hilda and the Missing Tsing Tao.

My darling boy Kris and I went out for another little meal on Sunday, yesterday in fact with my friend Philip (Her Ladyship Pippa Bancroft of Rimmostly) and his other half Ali. This meal was a sort of making up dinner in fact. Both Kris and I had a pretty stressful day on Saturday when I met the in laws for the first time.

Look ! No gratuitous mother in law jokes – not one (well not yet anyhow!).

Kris and I had a good day in fact on the Saturday with his mom and pop and we’d sort of made up an argument in the taxi home. Nearly as bad as the totally irrelevant and completely made up Deal or No Deal argument we engineered one evening (obviously bored) that I may write about in future. So being both feisty when it comes to arguments and both enjoying any chance to wave our arms, sulk and generally behave like prissy girls or hardened drama queens we had a very heated discussion in the cab.

When we got home, I paid the cab driver who was shaking! Our words must have been stronger than this chaps constitution. No sooner had the door clicked shut he’d sped off; wheels spinning in a plume of smoke form the recently incinerated tyres!

Drivers window down “your both f**king crazy” screams the driver as he negotiates a rather tricky pothole and 50 miles and hour.

I set about getting into the house and finishing the argument in a gentlemanly manner. In second thoughts, f**k it I thought and headed off to bed for some peace and quiet. Being grown up about these things I of course decided not to sleep with “it” and headed of to randomly fall into one of our 4 spare beds.

What was funny about this initiative I found out the following morning was that Kris had exactly the same petulant scheme and he’d also randomly found a spare pit to collapse into! The argument was so bad nether of us could bring ourselves to sleep in our bed!

What a pair of Premadonna’s eh!? (ed – is that how you spell that, Suze, where are you when I need you?)

Anyway no damage done, well no damage bad enough a nicely turned out bacon sarnie wafted under ones nose at 9.30 couldn’t remedy!

Anyway back to the real thread here, Captain Hilda.

Phil, Ali, Kris and myself headed off to town after spending the afternoon downing lager, eating peanuts and planning eventualities for our soon to arrive holiday. Having travelled with me before and knowing how I jinx every holiday Kris and Philip are taking no chances this time so we have planned in triplicate our routes to tropical paradise in the far east. So far the holiday seems to be pretty much going well, that’s of course if you are able to discount the Military Coup, the fact that the airline spelt all our names incorrectly and nigh on cancelled the whole trip and that Ali is not that fond of curry we're onto a winner!

So we are in the cab and we get on to the discussion of names – this being a core part of the problems to date with our booking. Pippa (her ladyship) was telling us an amusing story about a locum Registrar from India who’s doing the rounds in MRI. Philip sets about describe the exchange over a rather complicated extracorporeal renal procedure

“Philip” she says to him, “your surname sounds so regal, are you aristocracy, or are you a Lord perhaps?” Philip quite proud of this moment was shot down in flames by one of my passing comments.

“Lord!” I holler “Gaylord more like!”

He didn’t laugh rather gave me one of his trademark frowns.

However the cab drive thought it was pretty amusing missing the red light through the hilarity of the moment. Another of my lives shaved off as we slalomed around the stagecoach bus and roadwork’s as we continued to raced into town as if that reg light incident really hadn't just happened.

Philip ended the story there, either becuase of my sarccy ass comment or through fear of the white knuckle taxi ride.

Precipitously we arrive in town for a quick sortie and reconnaissance mission down Anal Treet enjoying the luxuries of EDEN, THOMPSON’S and almost HOLLYWOOD’S before we head off to my favourite of Chinese restaurants LITTLE YANG SING for some Dim Sum.

It is important to note here that about ¾ hour before going out Kris and I had in fact devoured a good portion of Rolled and Stuffed Lamb, Mangetout, Quince Jelly with chips and gravy (ooh and the mandatory 3 rounds of Warburton’s with Cornish Salted butter) so we really didn’t need to eat (makes a change from the previous Sunday I guess!) but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Anyway we arrive as LYS and as always they were excellent – they have their own unique style do LYS. They have impeccable service but are real Nazis when it comes to you helping yourself.

Let me give you an example of their level of fascism. Their RICE FASCISM is like no others. If you try, and I recommend you clear those thoughts of helping oneself to rice from the rice bowl that sits right next to you and plonk it in the exact measure you want into your own bowl then you’d better be prepared for the consequences! I tried it once, once is enough; I had about 3 waiters congregate around me. Jesus I thought, this is the end of my life, they are going to kill me. So 3 waiters, all vying to do the rice duty wafting menacingly the serving spoons when arrives on scene the big cheese Warren Yeueng who immediately blasts each of the waiters in turn for their "slap happy" approach to service and barks at them to pay more attention.

He did such a good job of publically belittling these poor bastards that I felt compelled to apologise for the situation. LOL. So rather than the nice dainty little spoonful I had intended to deposite in my bowl scoop after scoop of rice is pilled lovingly in my bowl by a recently chastised waiter. I didn’t have the heart to say “when” and let him carry on doing his duty!

Back to the story here again!

We arrive and we are greeted as normal and taken through to our normal table just under the air conditioner, they offer to take our jackets as normal and we plumb to keep them to save us from a certain chill as normal. Then Captain Hilda arrives, seriously this was her name as prescribed by the tag nestled contentedly on here bosom. Her real name is Xi Xi (Zee Zee) but appraranty thats too diffucult for us Mancunians. I have no idea why she's a captain, i was a little embarrased to ask.

She’s says “Wha yer waaan”

I order 2 Chinese beer for me, Pippa plumbs for one as does Kris and Ali sticks on the coke (economy drive). We eagerly await our Tsing Tao imported beer from China, probably Chinas greatest export (after printing, fireworks, medicine, the compass, the wheelbarrow, spaghetti, the rudder, iron casting, the abacus, anaesthetic, money, you get the point) which quite frankly is the highlight after the food on any visit to LYS.

Horror of horrors!!!

Our beer arrives - opened - its not our trusty friend Tsing Tao but an impostor “Quim May: Born in Beijing” (brewed in Burnley) NO! This won’t do at all!

Even after my first swig of Quim I know that that tangy aftertaste is not for me. Remember old donkey bollocks here order two of the charlatan drinks and its rancid but I just don't have it in me to waste beer. So as I am forcing my Quim down I have managed to get myself a comment card and a pen of the table next door to me and wrote a constructive criticism from the table and signed it Kris James Auld.

It read along the lines of “I have tried tonight and found not to like Quim I suggest you go back to the gold old days when you could count on it feeling good in the mouth. Bring back Tsing Tao. Ta. X”

When writing my suggestion I was hoping to appeal to Warren Yeuengs creative centres.

Any how Captain Hilda comes to take our food order and I hand her the note, we order and off she scurries. My cunning stunt worked a treat – Hilda took it upon herself to wander down to the Wang King supermarket and buy a bunch of Tsing Tao to be served exclusively to the table that has so much issue doing Quim.

Result.