Alcohol and abuse!
In an act of defiance to terrorists everywhere showing that they cannot disrupt our way of life, Mart and I decided to go out and get hammered in town last night.
It was very much two fingers to mad-arse Mohammedans as we met up in Bedford Street and decided that the best way to fight the threat was to have a few lagers.
London is blanketed by a heatwave at the moment and last night was humid to boot. Everyone seemed to want to come out to play, especially if they could do so in air-conditioned comfort near a bar.
A disturbing development was the large number of homosexualists around the place last night. I put it down to Mart's cologne. This was soon unsmellable as the latest trend among the pink and tickled of London is to smoke like a chimney. This, I suspect is because of a natural desire to have something in the mouth.
Moved on to a bar in Covent Garden that appears to be a Cornish themed pub! A pasty shop on the ground floor gives way to a bar on the first floor selling traditional Cornish Stella, or as it's known in Cornwall: 'pish'. The staff at least appeared to be Cornish, at least, I assume they have Oriental girls that serve in bars in Cornwall.
We ordered a couple of pints of St. Ella with a clotted cream floater and a jaunty slice of pasty adorning the glass and moved out onto the balcony. Or tried to, as it was fairly chocca. We were, however, able to see the busker in the square below. However, due to the current climate in town I had thought it best to leave the larger of my fowling pieces at home and he lived to mime another day.
On to the Porterhouse, and the first beer mistake of the evening. The sweet smelling strawberry ale interested us strangely and two pints were ordered. I should have known something was up when it cost eight quid for the round. What I had neglected to realise was that it was insanely strong and should only be drunk by the half pint.
Things then got a little strange.
Standing outside the pub, peering at some woman in a flat upstairs and idly wondering what she was preparing for dinner (pasta, I reckoned), I ended up in conversation with some young woman who, for no good reason, made some sort of comment about 'Ben Johnson's Volpone'.
There's something about the sort of person that drops a reference to an Elizabethan playwrite into a conversation that transforms me, like Jeckyl into Hyde, into a pretentious goit of the worst loathsome type. You will be cheered to know that I slurred 'Ah, the fox', at which point the young lady probably took one look at the state of my shoes and though 'shit…an English teacher' and resumed her conversation with he younger, better looking boyfriend.
I suppose it could have been worse, I could have replied 'as opposed to the Volpone by Michael Barrymore?'
How does one get oneself into these situations? A new rule, from now on, no discussion of anything, with anyone, when drinking. I intend to observe total silence when communing with the grape, grain or hop.
This, I think, will please others more than it pleases me.
Hangover: force 6, gusting to force 8 with occasional waves of nausea. Expect 2 para mid-morning and a medicate with a club sarnie from Pret at mid-day.
It was very much two fingers to mad-arse Mohammedans as we met up in Bedford Street and decided that the best way to fight the threat was to have a few lagers.
London is blanketed by a heatwave at the moment and last night was humid to boot. Everyone seemed to want to come out to play, especially if they could do so in air-conditioned comfort near a bar.
A disturbing development was the large number of homosexualists around the place last night. I put it down to Mart's cologne. This was soon unsmellable as the latest trend among the pink and tickled of London is to smoke like a chimney. This, I suspect is because of a natural desire to have something in the mouth.
Moved on to a bar in Covent Garden that appears to be a Cornish themed pub! A pasty shop on the ground floor gives way to a bar on the first floor selling traditional Cornish Stella, or as it's known in Cornwall: 'pish'. The staff at least appeared to be Cornish, at least, I assume they have Oriental girls that serve in bars in Cornwall.
We ordered a couple of pints of St. Ella with a clotted cream floater and a jaunty slice of pasty adorning the glass and moved out onto the balcony. Or tried to, as it was fairly chocca. We were, however, able to see the busker in the square below. However, due to the current climate in town I had thought it best to leave the larger of my fowling pieces at home and he lived to mime another day.
On to the Porterhouse, and the first beer mistake of the evening. The sweet smelling strawberry ale interested us strangely and two pints were ordered. I should have known something was up when it cost eight quid for the round. What I had neglected to realise was that it was insanely strong and should only be drunk by the half pint.
Things then got a little strange.
Standing outside the pub, peering at some woman in a flat upstairs and idly wondering what she was preparing for dinner (pasta, I reckoned), I ended up in conversation with some young woman who, for no good reason, made some sort of comment about 'Ben Johnson's Volpone'.
There's something about the sort of person that drops a reference to an Elizabethan playwrite into a conversation that transforms me, like Jeckyl into Hyde, into a pretentious goit of the worst loathsome type. You will be cheered to know that I slurred 'Ah, the fox', at which point the young lady probably took one look at the state of my shoes and though 'shit…an English teacher' and resumed her conversation with he younger, better looking boyfriend.
I suppose it could have been worse, I could have replied 'as opposed to the Volpone by Michael Barrymore?'
How does one get oneself into these situations? A new rule, from now on, no discussion of anything, with anyone, when drinking. I intend to observe total silence when communing with the grape, grain or hop.
This, I think, will please others more than it pleases me.
Hangover: force 6, gusting to force 8 with occasional waves of nausea. Expect 2 para mid-morning and a medicate with a club sarnie from Pret at mid-day.
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