arzehole to beak

5.45pm outside my house at volume, note ‘at volume’ in a whiney latent-aggressive bullying tone not without a hint of hatred, ironically…

“That was shit, shit, shit…If you really loved me, I mean really, really, really loved me… I mean, knew me, really knew ME, you wouldn’t do that, you wouldn’t do that, if you really, really, really loved me, you wouldn’t DO THAT.”

Stood in his room with his windows open, like most of the street on a hot summers day, Piqued stood stock still in utter disbelief, surely he must know everyone can hear this? What is the purpose of humiliating the emaciated and clearly ill mother of your totally emotionless 3 year old (with pierced ears) in public? Then the penny dropped, of course! He’s the big man, not the breadwinner as such (Cunt hasn’t done a days work in 5 fucking years) but he can meet out justice when he’s been wronged, right? The big strong macho bullet-headed fuck. It’s his right, his fucking right to show the street who is the fucking man, who is in charge, in control… silly Piqued for not understanding immediately, surely he should’ve know by now.

Despite this and a rather clumsy day at work I still had enough energy to haul myself into Chelsea in order to meet a friend for dinner. The deal was simple, friend and I pose for pictures for some newspaper and we get to eat and drink f.o.c. We arrived at the venue on the Kings Road, a loud eatery swarming with awful Chelsea types that comprised largely of clean-cut men with tailored shirts (daringly tie-less) and random vacant blonde bloodsuckers all haw hawing over fucking huge platters of meat and claws.

We were led downstairs which was slightly more appealing than the surface and ushered to a table where a photographer was waiting patiently for his models to arrive. The large dining room was knowingly dingy with a styled ‘shack’ quality to it, Americana prevailed, the walls daubed with adverts for archaic hot sauces, bbq condiments and the boastings of the finest crabs/ribs/lobster/heart condition, a two-man band blared out Eagles-like covers reducing conversation to a less dignified yelling and the posing commenced.

We ordered all the food based on aesthetics, dishes that would give the place an identity when consigned to the printed page. I wasn’t expecting our shared starter to be a dish the size of a UFO, there was more food contained within than some poor starving bastard in Bangladesh would see in 7 lifetimes. It was a crammed cornucopia of meat, seafood, cheese, potato, fried stuff, more fried stuff all lolling over tortilla chips and prawn crackers, the latter tasted like they’d been cooked in 1978 but the rest of it was fucking lovely.

The process of eating was punctuated by yet more posing, a bucket of Budweiser’s arrived, more posing ensued, I was already sick full by the time 3 grown men had given up on the fucking starter, the giant dished was removed for all intents and purposes untouched.

Then came the main course. I really didn’t want any more food but it arrived anyway, like a nightmare. A crab the size of Robert Mugabe’s head was shoved under my nose, then came steaks, a lobster, massive shrimp tails that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Darryl Hannah, fries, peas, another bucket of Bud’s, Jesus fucking Christ, it’s no wonder the Americans are so fucking fat.

More posing, more eating, I didn’t like this anymore. My friend and I resigned to gout bravely consumed, our will to live diminishing with every swallow. Some arsehole ordered pudding, I think it was me, by now I was bumping my chin on the table to force my jaw to masticate, I’m sure I passed out a few times.

The pudding arrived, cinnamon apple waffles with proper vanilla ice cream. Oh no, not waffles. Like doughnuts and cheesecake, waffles are one of those foodstuffs I can eat until I fart blood. Insane with cholesterol, my shaking cutlery found it’s way into the heart of the food mountain and I scooped a giant fork full of matter into my gaping maw, my eyes rolling back in my cranium, sugar rush, sweet Christ what have I done.

Suddenly, I was on the bus, upstairs at the front. How had this happened? I checked my vitals, I wasn’t pissed just utterly overwhelmed by food, I could hear people behind, were they talking about me? I felt more paranoid than Tom Cruise.

I got off the bus early in an effort to walk some of this shit out of my guts before I hit the sack, by the time I arrived home I was so shattered I walked upstairs, undressed without so much as a by your leave and slept like death.

I still feel full now; I don’t think I’ll bother eating until July.

14 responses to “arzehole to beak

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