January 31, 2006

So.

You go to a bar after work. It's a Tuesday, so it's empty. Very empty.

So empty, in fact, that it's you and Paul, the bar manager.

Anyway.

I'm reading The Times. I'm drinking a large VnT. I'm bespoked. I'm double-cuffed. I'm Moschino bespectacled up.

A Malboro light curls lazy flames from the ashtray.

(Actually, all the above is completely true, but I don't look nearly as smart as it sounds. I wish. But moving on.)

Then the bar door swings open wide.

And Laurel and Hardy walk in.

Bowler-hatted. Braces. Fake stomach on Olly. Painted grin on Stan.

They want to show me how to bend a fork.

Oh no, sorry.

They want me to pay them to show me how to bend a fork.

So.

I ask for my bill. I gather my things to leave.

They begin to poke each other *humourously* assuming that their playful Laurel and Hardy style gestures will encourage me to stay.

I don't.

Ironic, though, really. I gave them nothing.

But they gave me a blog.

Wankers.