Dad passed this at the weekend:
You’re probably thinking, big whoop, but you really don’t want to be going there – it’s cursed, mainly occupied by men of low moral fibre, and it may take you literally months to find the exit. Furthermore, the beer could burn through steel, there are gates leading to Giant Monkey Heads that cannot be opened for love nor money, and spitting contests are seriously difficult. It’s the kind of place where you’re forever checking over your shoulder, just in case there’s a three-headed monkey. I’ve also heard that people wander around insulting you and the best reply you can think of is “I am rubber, you are glue”.