06 May 2006


One of those dream put-downs one dreams of.

Home after picnic, need cigs, buy, spot pals in restaurant, join.

They're finishing, carrying the party on in their hotel room.

Gale who i fancy needs cigs and sort of would like a bottle of wine. But they haven't the dosh.

I say me neither but hey let's just get one on the slate, on me.

Some dullard swathed in bling and wearing shades at midnight tells me, "It ain't gonna happen."

I give him my "look". Vino, cigs? Bagatelle.

"It ain't gonna happen, dude."

I can't stand English cruds borrowing American, like I ^5'd my US buds but refuse to engage in it here.

I catch the waiter's eye. In Greek, bottle of red, Marlboro cigs; dammit, make that 2." (And a brace of geese de mong)

Oh, and I can't pay.

Waiter shakes head but says he'll fetch da boss.

Mister Bling: "What I say, won't happen."

Tryphon emerges from his receipt of custom,

"Kristos! I had no idea ....".

Shake of hands. Rasp of cheek.

"I just stopped by ... some friends ... if you could see your way to ..."

Jerk of head to minion, inimitable Greek short-hand gesture to signify "Carte blanche" and T is gone.

In fact, that Greek gesture speaks more along the lines of "I shouldn't even have to've been *asked* to OK such a trivial matter as signing over my business, my Mercedes, my wife, *your* virgin sister, to this valued friend ... be man!".

Bouteille and cigs are produced, which I make a big point of handing to my lady.

Bling berk doesn't bat an eyelid.

"So why don't you do it for *me*?"

From his perch, Tryphon leans out,

"Because he no in fucking drag! (sic) Now go!"

Lady under her breath as we hug g'night, "Replay to repay."

I *try* to walk out like a winner, but is an oldie's stumble.