One Saturday morning every one of those where there is a shit to do, get the proposal to go to that Mayakovsky. Abandon all hope ye who enter here. Arrived at ten-thirty, I and my brave, we see right now a knot of hippoppari pants-style "in the shit slip sull'esosissimo discuss the entrance fee: 5 € for the ticket + free drink. There are those who curse and tearing his hair: "No come on, how do I pay 5 €! Then I am left more cash! Fuck you I will not go! Oh guys, do not go by that you may not make us pay! And then the DJ is my friend. " Scenes of low patronage of the alloy. It is not the party of Bossi. The fact is that, beating time with a cigarette, I almost do influence in waiting for a DJ friend and follow him in the crowd of freeloaders. A lightning bolt that passes through me but leave me now. I decide to enter. It must be said that already out, Mayakovsky suggests a bad place to be. The location is in an alley near Porta Vescovo, which is influenced by neighboring negronettiane. Crossing the threshold, two girls, one Polish and one with the big face from balon rasta untissima and very acid, beat box. Or fill out the sheet or you do not enter. Mario Rossi decide to compile the package, pay cinquello and enters. Without the hall, the show is one of the most depressing ever. A vecchiarda nailed to a chair scrutinizing eye smashed off all those who enter. The restaurant is virtually empty except for 4 "slip in the shit" mired in as many seats as above. I decide to drink, to forget. Coke and rum, thanks. Good? Nope ... the rum really knows how to spin the euro sewer. Gulp his face in disgust. Beautiful scene that happens a few minutes later: enter a type, order a whiskey and cola. The girl makes him and asks him to five euro. Type: "Excuse me, is not complimentary drink?" And her "no, just coke and rum and gin and lemon." The type replies: "ah, I did not know, but I have no money, I can not pagartelo" takes on the cocktail and go away. Scene really super trash! Order a coca havana. 5 € for a cocktail rotten, poured into a paper cup. Li mortacci! Undecided whether to decamp to the flight or whether to wait, bet on the latter. After about half an hour, hordes of "shit in the slip" begin to fill the Mayakovsky. Ah, speaking of the furniture. Infaustissima the choice of attacking a number of paintings depicting Snout butterflies and death. Certainly do not help to raise the value of that place with soft lighting soporific. The apotheosis is if you have a photo of a dead rat, attached to the left of the bar. Seeing is believing. Then, for if the place is not so bad, if you leave out that might well be the basement of a house row. They leave a little free-style dishes, with an adjoining cluster of friends of DJs who have the input latch. Also Butel Saval, alias John Smith. At Mayakovsky? No way man, no way. If you know it you avoid it, a bit 'like the dark or like James, an old imbriagon that runs the downtown bar and that aims to attack the victim's nails absurd turn.
Thumbs down, all
BS
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