Look, the pizza’s honestly decent—hot, cheesy, arrives faster than my ex’s apologies. I love that it’s reliable, and honestly, in Glasgow, that’s half the battle. But here’s the thing: every single time, the box opens and it’s like… they tried to cut it. Like, they got the knife out, gave it a wee poke, then decided “nah, that’ll do.”
So you grab a slice and—rip—cheese peels off like a bad breakup, toppings scatter like confetti at a funeral, sauce everywhere. I’m left wrestling what looks like a tectonic plate of dough, not a pizza. And yeah, I know Domino’s is in Glasgow—city famous for knife crime—and yet somehow, the one place that should be good with blades is treating my dinner like it’s made of rubber.
(And speaking of staff: lovely folk, really—mostly international, which is fine, but when you’re handing over a half-cut pizza with a smile that says “I don’t speak fluent pizza,” you start wondering if “cut” means something different in their language. No shade, just… maybe a quick YouTube tutorial?)
As for the shop itself? Back when I could actually go in—before my knees gave up and delivery became my new religion—the vibe was… ruined. West End, Glasgow Uni crowd everywhere. You know the type posh privileged Madame’s and lord knows it doesn’t help when you hear the migraine triggering accent and intentionally eardrum bursting levels of volume not their voice