Funniest thing I heard on Friday.
A complete stranger says - "You know what I really hate about Gays? They're always having fucking parades and shit. How come we never get parades? We should have a parade just for us - for white people...."
A man so hateful and stupid that in his drunken ranting towards anyone who was listening, or earshot of his shouting, that he completely forgot whether he was trying to be homophobic, or just plain racist.
So that can only mean one thing, I'm out on the tiles suffering the intelligentsia and bar room philosophers that frequent the bars of this fair city....
Not normally my bag, town on a Friday. I don't really even like our local on a Friday night. Too busy. Too many amateurs and arseholes, ruining my gentle slide into inebriation with their mockney chavery, gangsta low slung jeans, and wanky R&B ringtones. Screeching chavettes in matching jewellery/makeup/sports gear combinations.
But every once in a while, or to be more precise, once in a year, Mrsslippy has a birthday, and gets carte blanche to do anything, with I just blanch at the prospect of bars that don't serve ale, and 'nightclubs'.....
The evening started well. Meet up with the others at The Fort St. George and sit outside in the sunshine/sunlight. Yep. Definitely sunlight. If it was shining it would have been warmer. But still very pleasant.
I like the Fort, but do have two issues with it.
Firstly, size. It has an enormous outside seating area, that can easily cater for a few hundred people on its many, many benches. This is however counter balanced with only 2 bars. One 4 foot wide, the other about 8 foot. This woefully inadequate space is then staffed by 4 people, who may often be highly skilled, but certainly weren't on Friday. The queues at each bar where generally about a dozen people deep, and getting served took in excess of 25 minutes each time. Not assisted by the fact that the staff seemed incapable of pouring more than one drink at a time. Tell you what. If you're standing watching that lager tap, why not stick a glass under the other one at the same time. Or find out what the next people in the queue are drinking? You might be able to fil that coke glass while that Stella's still dribbling out, completely unassisted. Also the toilets so small that if the urinals are all in use (which they will be with all those people sat outside), in order to not stand so close to the man in front that you are practically spooning him while he has his cock out, you instead stand so close to the automatic hand dryer that it blows a Saharan wind down your arse crack.
Secondly, it's the clientele. It certainly lacks the chavs of the local, but unfortunately has taken a step too far in the other direction. Whilst queueing for drinks, I had to listen to the prattle of some bint questioning the licensing laws that prevented Felicity and Christian from bringing young Peter into the bar area, as it was getting a bit chilly for him with his asthma. Tell you what Felicity and Christian, fuck off home with young Peter, and only bring him back when he's either a) old enough to come into the grown ups only area, or b) has grown a pair, and is not so fucking fragile that Mummy and Daddy need to wrap him in cotton wool.
There were posh twats, trendies, and weird Americans.
Second funniest thing I heard that night, an American, saying to his friend with absolutely no irony or sarcasm "hey, there's no point at us both queuing at separate bars, why don't we consolidate beverages?".
You fucking morons. "Get my round for me" not "consolidate fucking beverages".
Only safe thing to do, when at the bar, get a tray, and rack up some spares. Once consumed, move closer 'into town'.
The place of choice, the B Bar (or is that BeBar, or even Bee Bar?), and that was the place I heard the twat at the top of this tale. They had one ale, which was off. Would they allow that to happen to a lager? I doubt it. I think they are just trying to stop people like me going there, which is fine for people like me, except once a year, I do have to go there. Never mind. I can tolerate wife beater, and a few pints of that thrown into the mix would surely only brighten up mine, and therefore everyone else's evening. In fact it was doing such a good job of altering my conscious and perceptions of normal Slippymark behaviour, before I really knew what was going on, I was paying my way into The Fez Club.....
Shit. How did that happen? I was in a night club.
Definitely no ale here, so I believe I was drinking something with a slice of lime wedged in the top, but I really couldn't say what. My resounding memories are of Gingerfeck doing his usual special (needs) dancing, people that looked like they'd escaped from a Hollyoakes/Skins fancy dress party, and a terrible, terrible smell.
I can say with confidence that I have not been clubbing since I gave up smoking, and probably not since it was made illegal in public spaces, so I had always been pretty oblivious in my ruined olfactory system, or the fug of others fags. What I never realised was, take that away, and what you are left with is not the heady mix of a thousand fragrances, fresh from Boots.
No, what you get is the acrid stench of thousand rancid boots, shoes and trainers, and a thousand strangers stale armpits.
Got to go, got to get out, got to get a Kebab....
Thankfully, and thank Katieluv, she was ready to leave, and wanted to get food, and could give myself and the birthday girl a lift home.
Gardenias was only a short stroll away, and not too busy, once you negotiated the drunkard who had fallen on the floor in front of the counter.
Then came a spot of luck - for Katieluv anyway, or so I thought.
There, on the ground near Gardenias was a shiny, brand spanking new looking mobile phone. Katieluv was unsure what to do with it, but to me it was pretty obvious.
"Sell it" said I."It's very new looking - you could probably get at least £50 quid on t'internet"
"No" says Katieluv "it's someone's phone!"
On closer inspection, it appeared to be the same model, but a couple of upgrades up from Mrsslippys.
"Give it to Mrsslippy" I encouraged. "It exactly the same as the one she's got, except only newer, shinier, and better.
"No" says Mrsslippy, "I don't want it".
"Then you have to sell it" says I. They're probably a cock anyway if they're drunk enough to lose a lovely new phone on a Friday night. They don't deserve a phone".
At this point Katieluv started checking the contacts and messages, to see who it might belong to.
"Look at his mates names" I shouted, getting quite indignant now. "He is clearly a cock, and should have his phone either sold, or just thrown away. It's Karma. He was meant to lose it, you were meant to find it".
"No", says Katieluv. "He's got his mums name in there, he can't be that bad".
Not true. I have my mums name in my phone, and after a dozen or so pints of ale, wifebeater, and stuff with limes in it, I am most definitely a cock.
So Katieluv took us home, and kept the phone safe for the night, to ponder on it's fate the following day. I don't know what she's done with it yet, but I do know that it woke her up at stupid o'clock with a shitty ring tone, because she woke me up at stupid o'clock to tell me, and ask what the Karma was telling her then.
So if you are a cock and you lost your phone on Friday, Katieluv has it.
If you are not a cock and lost your phone, I would re-evaluate your self assessment. Your friends sound like arses, your inbox is full of drivel, and you have a shit taste in music.
If you are a cock, and Katieluv has returned your phone, she's too good for you, and Karma owes her big style.
All I know is it's not mine. I am just a cock who didn't lose his phone.