Liverpool’s win covered for bad service at Police
Jun 05, 2005
If you want to know the meaning of words like disorganised, unserious, incompetent and confused, just go to Police Club on Jinja Road.
If you want to know the meaning of words like disorganised, unserious, incompetent and confused, just go to Police Club on Jinja Road.
The place has all the potential to be a great hang out; four TVs, a pool table, darts, a spacious compound and parking, but what does the proprietor do? Run it like the former UTC.
When the askari guides you into parking, you get the impression that the police mess is the place to shoplift a tip or two about order. But when you arrive and find neither a free seat nor anyone bothering to show you one, you discover the folly of believing without seeing.
It is up to you to pick a plastic chair from a pile in a corner, remain standing (which is dangerous because there is a darts game going on) or draw a gun and go shoot someone. Some friends and I choose the first option and prepared to watch Liverpool make history.
But getting a waitress to pay attention to us became harder than it was for the VP to meet the president. And like Bukenya, we had to go through the media to get the attention of management.
A waitress, who obviously did not find us likable, told us there was no Guinness, yet people at the next table were being served with the same. When we demanded to see the manager, she returned with a warm Guinness instead. Her Majesty the waitress had no time to look for a cold one because the Liverpool match was about to start. We were warned to make all orders then or forever keep our peace.
Police Club is a police state. Waitresses only move at gun point and if you have no gun, prepare for a lot of shouting.
I am not used to being treated like that. Had it anything to do with the new 4WD I have just bought? (OK I confess; I only added in that to let you know that a proud offroad, four-wheel-steering machine has my name tag on it).
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Back to Police Club. There is good chicken and fish but there is no way of knowing that unless you have a qualified nose or you practically wrestle down one of the waiters and threaten to blow up the place.
With such treatment and Liverpool three goals down, I would have fought if anyone had as much as stepped on my foot. I even pitied the girl who called me at halftime to examine my guessing qualifications: “You mean you can’t tell who I am?†I downloaded all the wrath that was threatening to explode my head.
And God saw that the time was right to redeem his sinners. Liverpool equalised and AC Milan collapsed in front of Liverpool’s Jerzy Dudek’s goalmouth breakdance inside the Ataturk stadium.
Like a man poisoned by his own tattoos, Milan drank from the same cup Man U and Sporting Lisbon had drunk from previously.
Which goes to prove my theory that in modern football, it is those who play well that lose.
We drank to the health of my 4X4, a real mound of metal that is planning to suck Kampala’s fuel stations dry — on my account! It is an offroad but I would be stupid to drive it through rocks and forests as the TV ads show. Only people as smart as Tumukunde can risk an adventure in the wilderness with an investment in the excess of sh15m. Actually, my offroad car concept is a 1966 Angalia or Cortina, which combine the advantage of being scrap with the advantage of being so ugly that even poisonous snakes flee it in terror. Crashing that one would be a blessing in disguise. “Hew, at last it is gone!â€
Ends
The place has all the potential to be a great hang out; four TVs, a pool table, darts, a spacious compound and parking, but what does the proprietor do? Run it like the former UTC.
When the askari guides you into parking, you get the impression that the police mess is the place to shoplift a tip or two about order. But when you arrive and find neither a free seat nor anyone bothering to show you one, you discover the folly of believing without seeing.
It is up to you to pick a plastic chair from a pile in a corner, remain standing (which is dangerous because there is a darts game going on) or draw a gun and go shoot someone. Some friends and I choose the first option and prepared to watch Liverpool make history.
But getting a waitress to pay attention to us became harder than it was for the VP to meet the president. And like Bukenya, we had to go through the media to get the attention of management.
A waitress, who obviously did not find us likable, told us there was no Guinness, yet people at the next table were being served with the same. When we demanded to see the manager, she returned with a warm Guinness instead. Her Majesty the waitress had no time to look for a cold one because the Liverpool match was about to start. We were warned to make all orders then or forever keep our peace.
Police Club is a police state. Waitresses only move at gun point and if you have no gun, prepare for a lot of shouting.
I am not used to being treated like that. Had it anything to do with the new 4WD I have just bought? (OK I confess; I only added in that to let you know that a proud offroad, four-wheel-steering machine has my name tag on it).
Clap! Clap! Clap!
Back to Police Club. There is good chicken and fish but there is no way of knowing that unless you have a qualified nose or you practically wrestle down one of the waiters and threaten to blow up the place.
With such treatment and Liverpool three goals down, I would have fought if anyone had as much as stepped on my foot. I even pitied the girl who called me at halftime to examine my guessing qualifications: “You mean you can’t tell who I am?†I downloaded all the wrath that was threatening to explode my head.
And God saw that the time was right to redeem his sinners. Liverpool equalised and AC Milan collapsed in front of Liverpool’s Jerzy Dudek’s goalmouth breakdance inside the Ataturk stadium.
Like a man poisoned by his own tattoos, Milan drank from the same cup Man U and Sporting Lisbon had drunk from previously.
Which goes to prove my theory that in modern football, it is those who play well that lose.
We drank to the health of my 4X4, a real mound of metal that is planning to suck Kampala’s fuel stations dry — on my account! It is an offroad but I would be stupid to drive it through rocks and forests as the TV ads show. Only people as smart as Tumukunde can risk an adventure in the wilderness with an investment in the excess of sh15m. Actually, my offroad car concept is a 1966 Angalia or Cortina, which combine the advantage of being scrap with the advantage of being so ugly that even poisonous snakes flee it in terror. Crashing that one would be a blessing in disguise. “Hew, at last it is gone!â€
Ends