I was staying at my friend's Cathy's flat in the 80's and she promised me a night out in her Londontown. But first I had to help her friend PJ get a job. PJ was a rather exotic Irish version of the traditional English dandy complete with eyeliner and lipstick. Dangling two ear rings in each ear he had paraded in public with daffodils sprouting from his head. And he had done this in Texas where he was bloodied and beaten showing his feminine side to some macho cowboys.
The day I met him he had a a job interview. He was dully dressed in a white shirt, bland tie and black pants. He wore no makeup and nothing pink, his favorite flamboyant flash of color. He claimed he was a sight and was depressed about his appearance.
I talked him out of wearing a girl's lime green coat and loaned him my new gray jacket. With a borrowed pair of black shoes he got the job, after a string of rejections by being himself at interviews. His new life slogan could then be “to thine own self be false.” to get along.
However, he was back in full flower for the Talk of London night club. We were a party of nine. And I stress the word party. It all began rather soberly. The troubles came later after many carafes of cheap vinegar wine and stout English ale. We soon became the talk of the Talk of London due mainly to our boisterous women, namely Cathy and her roommate Margaret.
Margaret loved to laugh and had a roaring sense of humor with a deep throated crow caw laugh that could crack concrete. Cathy had a strangled cackle kind of laugh. So with the cheap wine that came with the meal, the roaring cawing and the soaring cackling during the cabaret show we got shot a lot of stares and glares. In vain, the men tried to quiet the women.
The club was full of older German tourists at the end of a long tiring tour and were quite subdued liked they were still feeling the loss of WWII. We were the only life there and soon we were on our third and final warning, before being thrown out. The waiter stopped delivering us drinks. So a contingent went to the bar to order.
In no time, three of our women were shouting and exchanging bitter biting words with the manager, who then stormed off. Margaret, miffed at his rude behavior but only reciprocating her rude behavior, kicked her foot at his fleeing figure and her high heel flew off. It sailed through the air like a spear, arced and dropped down (stiletto heel first) diving directly onto the top of the manager's head leaving a divot in his scalp.
It was an incredible shot! Beckham couldn't have bent it any better. The manager suddenly lost his fake Spanish accent and started swearing at Margaret in pure London cockney. Miraculously ( Yes, there is a party God after all.), they let us stay and we closed down the joint dancing to the Motown sound, with as many tourists as Cathy could corral onto the floor. It was a major victory for drunken bad behavior by paying customers everywhere! The next night was our big London party.
No comments:
Post a Comment