Thursday 7 August 2008

10. The Fairer Sex

In she comes. Low-cut top right down to there, and what I believe is known as a "Greyhound skirt" - i.e. just behind the hair. She gets her 20 Marlboro (interesting fact, that - yer Poles always buy either top-end, premium stuff, Marlboro, Courvoisier, Jamesons, OR bargain basement rubbish, i.e. Pall Mall, [name of shite cider not mentioned for legal reasons], Old Redwood. Some day I'll write a dissertation on the racial preferences of punters at grotty provincial offies. Your actual African exchange student, for instance, is a devotee of the name-brand spirits. But I digress.) So off she goes, swinging her immensely desirable Eastern-European arse behind her, leaving me alone with Mr 4-cans of cider every four hours.

"Oh, hey, I would though," he says, shaking his head. "Out of our league, though," he adds

AT which point I decide ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

"Like FUCK she is, Stench-Boy," I yell, making a manly attempt to hide my disgust but failing, spittle flecking the corners of my mouth. "Were I single, I would be perfectly capable of shagging her, her sisters, her mates and her acquaintances SO BLOODY WELL that they'd all offer to run away with me, set up some kind of Polish Mormon polygamist deal in the highlands of Scotland, and give me a LIFETIME of incredibly dirty group sex. Out Of Your League, certainly. My League, however, is of an entirely different magintude. BE GONE SIR! Back to your copy of Razzle and four Olde English, whilst I contemplate my destiny as father of the Polo-Irish master-race."


You have to bear in mind, Thursay 3-7 is a VERY dull shift.

Sunday 3 August 2008

9. Behind The Facade

He scrutinises the fridge intently. The a nearby shelf. Then he comes over.

"Have you got any of these chilled?"

"Yes sir, indeed we do. None are in the fridge - that fridge, right there, the one IN THE SHOP - but many are in our special walk-in fridge out the back, where we stock every single brand of beer in the world, chilled by specially-calibrated thermostats, including what I notice is your drink of choice, McNasty's Super-Strength Bus-Shelter Fuel. But beware, that fridge is available only to the most select brethren of the crappy off-licence; those who have been initiated into it's mysteries. For behind the facade of just the one fridge, of a shop surrounded by low-ratable value multiple-occupancy housing, charity shops, one extremely off-brand boutique and a well-known local brothel, behind and beneath lies a sordidly glamorous hellfire club of chilled beer, hot gypsies, and the spirit of Bacchus."

I lowered my voice.

"But they take it too far, sir. You must have noticed, you're in here every day, that we've lost two serving-wenches already this month? It isn't right what they do in there. A gent like you shouldn't get involved with them animals, sir. You'd be best advised to just drink the same thing you drink warm every other day of the year without complaint, and stop asking stupid fucking questions of poor bloody offy drones who are stuck inside earning a godamned living on the hottest day of the bloody year, while you, due to your reluctance to pay the £1 premium for big-name brands, are drinking 7% of regrettably warm lager with your unemployable mates and your fucking pitbull, on that patch of grass between the Spar and the Community Centre. If you ask me."

Of course I fucking didn't. But a man can dream.