Seattle is tucked away in the top left corner of the USA.  It’s got some tall buildings, however they are more of a token gesture towards sky-scraping rather than anything a giant monkey could swat biplanes from.

The rest of Seattle is based around life on the water and to prove it there are boats, docks and probably lots of fish swimming around hither and thither.

The Edgewater Hotel is one of the best hotels I’ve ever stayed in. It was good enough for the Beatles to have stayed there. To prove it they have a framed bedsheet in the reception, featuring one of Ringo’s wank-stains. Although it doesn’t say that.

The only disturbing thing about the hotel was the sign on the front door that says, ‘Concealed Weapons Are Not Allowed In This Hotel’. This is reassuring in one sense, because they don’t allow them. On the other hand, it makes no mention of a similar ban on unconcealed weapons.

The hotel is extended on stilts over the water of Puget Sound. On my first evening a seal swam by my window. According to the porter it was not unknown for whales to be splashing around out there too. Thereafter I made sure my room had an ample supply of clubs and harpoons, all of which were readily available from the hotel shop.

The English chap I was meeting in Seattle was in the process of applying for a ‘Green Card’. This allows you to live and work in the USA. However, the authorities get very picky about who they hand these things out to. Anybody who’s had a run-in with the law goes to the end of the queue.

So far he’d been very good. He’d kept himself clear of any parking tickets and there hadn’t been anything going up his nose apart from his finger. Therefore his application was looking promising. Well it was, until he took me out in Seattle.

In hindsight we picked the wrong restaurant. This wasn’t immediately apparent at the beginning of the evening as the waiter was very friendly. Every time our glasses were drained, another martini magically appeared. Therefore it should have come as no surprise to him that we got exceedingly pissed.

Somehow we managed to upset the waiter with our boyish banter to the point where he refused to carry on serving us. It took us some time to work out that he was actually serious, and there was sod-all chance of any pudding. He theatrically sought out the only clean spot he could find on the table and plonked our bill down with some contempt.

I decided that such unreasonable behaviour was worthy of reporting to the management. I made my feelings known to the manager. It was at this point that things started to turn really sour.

The increase in hostilities may have been due to my liberal use of several swear words that I mistakenly thought they wouldn’t know in America. Or it may have been that my English friend was now unconscious with his face down in his pasta.

The manager, an equally disrespectful fellow, suggested that, unless we vacated his establishment forthwith, it was very likely that the Seattle Police Department would put in an appearance. So it was that we were forced to stumble hurriedly from the restaurant, lest we spent the night locked up with drunkards.

So be warned, waiters in America have no sense of irony.

On the way out of such a situation just make sure you do like I did, and give your surly waiter a swift kick. Just to remind him, in an un-ironic way, as to why he wasn’t getting a tip.

Then run like buggery before the police get there.

See my other less fractious adventures in the USA by clicking here.