Bar Dive Scores 8.6
I was flat, flat on the floor, flat on the floor in front of an entire audience whose heads have swung like motion sensitive CCTV cameras to take in every last moment of my humiliation. My backpack filled with clothes and flat-pack chair (for a more relaxed beer on the go) had caused me to over balance and shallow-dive through the doors of the bar, which was strange because up until I’d arrived in England I had tended to walk through the bloody things. Trying to show that I found the whole thing hilarious too, I heaved myself to my knees and then my feet with a grin on my face like hyena flat out on ecstasy.
I notice a man. He stands in a group of men. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand and spit flies from his mouth whilst he yells at the men around him. I can see he’s man’s man; he doesn’t seem to care how many disagree, he is right. I reckon a challenge to the authority of this type of berk will cause three things: a puffed out chest, a quick scrimmage with his manhood and a nose to nose yelling match during which the poor bloke that questioned him will be subjected to a salivary monsoon. He looks over in my direction.
“What is up with your hat sunshine?”
“C’mon mate, it’s the very latest. Ladies love it.”
I instantly regretted my rash decision to attempt rhetoric with a man who clearly has the social grace of a Great White with ADD. Soon, I am magically transformed into ‘Bruce the human spittoon’. Not being a show I wished to take on tour, I decided it was about time to get this human hosepipe to spit on some other fool.
“Look mate, I only just arrived here. All I want is a cold beer, or two, and I’ll be on my way. Although, if we do have to keep arguing, warn me. I’ll go get an umbrella for my face.”
The man’s friends hide sniggers.
“What you talking ‘bout you smug git?”
“Mate, I am talking about your inability to talk without precipitatin’ on a guy. Now, get out my face!”The man looks at me, eyebrows raised. He takes half a step back to look me up and down. His knuckles pale as he clenches his fists, but at six foot two and fifteen stone, I’m not worried. I look over and see his friends have clearly enjoyed my little performance and won’t be backing him if he gets rowdy. So, I turn away from him and look straight towards the bar. I order some beer from a Marilyn Monroe look-a-like. She puts the beer in front of me and after a second look I decide that she looks more Marilyn in her present state, decaying. I think to myself that maybe living in a penal colony isn’t so bad. The outlook here’s pretty crap.