No other restaurant in the world calls their waitresses wenches, encourages you to eat with your hands and serves mead by the litre. If you throw a chair, fall down the stairs when your legs fail and puke in a water jug, you probably won’t get banned. Speaking from experience.
That bit at the end where all the grease has dripped to the bottom and soaked the crust in delicious pastyness. NOM.
Preferably home-brewed, face-numbing stuff made from your friend’s mum’s orchard. If not, an ice cold Rattler will hit the spot. None of that Strongbow nonsense you get up north.
It might only come in one flavour, but it’s the best ice cream in the whole world and there’s only one small shop on the planet that makes and sells it. Clotted cream and a flake compulsory.
The Cornish love to laugh, and being rude and inappropriate is how we make our bellies ache with joy. We just like to say what you’re thinking, but with a few more swear words and the occasional burst of casual racism.
Honestly, who else is going to tell you about a rogue sheep in Camborne high street while you’re driving to see your nan?
Wind seasoned by the sea that whips your hair into a frenzy messier than the morning after the best shag of your life. Fill up those lungs with wonderful, pure, Cornish oxygen. There ain’t no city smog ‘ere.
Us Cornish like to booze and like to take our clothes off. On the beach, on top of the bar, at a festival, on the trampoline in your friend’s garden when their parents are quietly eating tea in the conservatory. We just like to show off what God gave us, and everyone is ok with that.
We love to talk about other people and can’t keep information to ourselves. Especially if it involves a scandal from school night drinking and one too many scrumpys.
There’s no better feeling than heading back to the office with sand stuck all over your feet after spending your hour of freedom on the beach. Smug? Oh yeah.
From your friends to their parents, everyone in your Cornish world is embraced into your family like they’re your brothers and sisters. We’ve got plenty of love to go around.
£1 a drink on a Thursday? Fuck yeah. Have your excuses ready for calling in sick on Friday morning, this one’s gonna be heavy.
He probably never leaves the pub and when he talks his voice is laced with the strongest Cornish slur anyone’s ever heard. Nobody knows what he’s saying, but everyone is his best mate on a Friday night. 