Sex, lies and the death of meaning

Mendacity hangs in the air like rotting flesh or Sunday's news. The line's in, and you didn't make the turn; your horse didn't even make it out of the start house, cut down with a hatchet by some very motivated professionals. Now it's time to pay off the vig. Never play a game before learning the rules, and not just any rules, their rules. Too many people in London think their chips weigh in enough for a hand, but no one bothered to tell them that this table uses 53 cards and they'd be better off playing pub bingo in their pink shirts and pin striped suits. This is precisely what I told some city fucker before I stomped him on the steps of the 188 for trying to edge me out of the queue. Not that he deserved the full fury of my wrath, but I gave up cynicism for lent; and something had to give. As far as I know, he's still laying on the curb holding his manhood cheap because some 68 kilo white boy from the states taught him a very simple lesson: no one cares. Now, he'll think twice about shouting into his mobile about the big deal he signed or the millions of pound he counts each day because in the end he still knows that he's a first class looser who got five accross the face before losing his girl friend to someone whose nihlistic self-indulgence knows no bounds.

One of the subtleties of my personality is that I am motivated only by amusement. Armed with this tidbit and the knowledge that the modern world provides a near 24-7 Simpson's mainline, I'm dangerous and about as motivated to endure stupidity as I am to be vegan-though, for the record, I made a small wager with my flatmates that I could go 30 days vegan as long as I was allowed to maintain my usual flow of booze. They agreed; now I have 150 extra pounds, and they learned that I never gamble. Apparantly they never noticed that I practically subsist on rice and beans. I always have, and I always will; I like them.

Because of my pension for taking money from the uninitiated, coupled with my utter brain-melt brought on by countless words writing, countless miles training and my weakened nutritional state, I've been too exausted to enjoy the finer points of London's night life lately. Take away the odd trip to Fabric or the random wine tasting, and I've been Poindexter. So, when peresented with the opportunity to go pub crawling in Notting Hill, I all but lept at the opportunity to see how the other half live for no other reason that it would be amusing. And when I found myself fending off two train-wreck scousers while my mates occupied themselves with the best and only British tradition of getting completely assholed on lager and Sambuca, I could only thank the good lord for the strength to push it to the abosulute measure of chaos.

I will not bore you all with the gory details of the English courting ritual, but it has about the same amount of finesse as a 1000-ton shithammer. Combine the forward nature of British women--especially those from the north, with my Saturday's the day I cut loose intoxication and add a double measure of my insanly good looks...well you get the idea what kind of cocktail comes of that. Before I know it, I'm being accosted into a booth and left to fend for my honor. The first one's telling me about how much she hates London and wants to go back up North--I don't care, and good, leave. The second one's not interested so much in my ability to form words as she is my Ben Shermans--or rather what's in them. Having TW from Friday night, all I'm intersted in is putting as much distance between my self and these two slags as possible, and to do this required a plan of such cunning deviance that those who regale in evil would be proud. First part of the plan was to get out of the booth--no problem, we needed more booze anyway. The second part was to slip away undetected--problem, the table was by the door. Part three, make it look like nothing was happening--easy peasy, 'cause I'm a genius.

Before securing drinks, I texted my mates accross the bar to meet me at the next pub down the street, but be cool and make it seem that I'm in it for the ladies. They catch on, give me the wink--that the ladies take to mean they'll be hearing from me after breakfast--shudder. Next, I slip out of the booth, refasten by belt and strut to the bar for a bottle of wine--a cheap rose, why, because in about 5 minutes 2 women of indiscriminating tastes are going to be drinking it, and I was only willing to drop like 6 quid--here's the smart bit, I come back with three glasses along with the 'wine' and make a production of pouring it and excuse myself to the gentleman's room to avail myself of this establishment's facilities--and to think of a plan. As I'm turning to leave, the second one (who fancies my pants) presses a 2 pound coin in my hand and does the licky lips thing like on late night soft core tv, while the first is still moaning about London. Why two pounds you ask? Because every toilette in England has a condom machine on the wall, and most of them charge 2 quid for 3. Classy.

This particular rest room at Murphey's Irish Pub and Oyster Bar, besides the usual plumbing fixtures and the Durex machine by the door is also equiped with an open window, a large open window, a man sized window...and it's only about 4 feet to the alley below...Now comes the moral dilema, and evoking some immortal words of Joe Strummer, I stood, perplexed with choice. No not really, I zipped up, pocketed the 'rubber money' and slipped out the window, making it to the next pub in time for the first round and having been received with a round of applause did not even have to buy a drink the rest of the night. Heroic, it was called by some; I prefer funny and am still probably going to burn my pants.


Oh but dear friends, I will pay for this night I'm sure. Karma does not let us off so easily. But it's late, I need rest.

The gods of geography demand blood.

thanks for reading