miboyz

Friday at the wine bar.

IC and I had arrived at about 5.30, the place was quietly busy but one remaining table by the door was available. I was rather taken aback by a member of staff who said ‘good evening, Sir, not seen you for a while… ‘ To which I replied, ‘I’ve never been here in my life!’ Until IC reminded me we had about nine months ago. (My initial surprise at his memory was curtailed when I noticed that everyone in the place was in a suit and I was stood in my leather jacket and beaten Converse, as per.)

We sat down next to a table of three sharply dressed fellows, an Uncle Monty look-a-like, a young Tory boy and a particularly well-heeled man in glasses who was utterly pissed out of his tree speaking in incoherent bursts of blabber- it was just about possible to gather that he was, to use the vernacular, ‘posh.’

They were drinking champagne and had been there since lunch, I gathered, and their behaviour was public-school rowdy and not entirely without a touch of privileged campness. Indeed, Tory boy seemed to be the sexy focus, albeit blurred, of his two companions.

Specky was slumped in his chair and getting increasingly close to IC as he twisted in his seat blurting out non-sequiturs until the point came he actually made contact. IC invited him to move away, which he did. Then the younger, shorter, Uncle Monty said something to us… Not entirely sure what exactly but I didn’t like his tone.

The polite member of staff finished his shift and was replaced by a pedantic little woman who occasionally fawned over the three piss-pots like they were minor royalty, which they may have been for all I know, or care. Either which way, it was clear they were regulars and judging by the amount of booze, and the quality being consumed, earning the wine bar a tidy sum.

IC got another bottle just as Specky passed out in his chair, his two companions carried on regardless. Shortly Specky awoke and made a grab for his glass, missed and knocked it crashing to the floor. The pedant ran over with a dust-pan and brush, accompanied by cooing noises of placation, to slurs of received-pronounced apology.

Shortly after the latter pair went to the bar to get another bottle, I glanced over at Specky and concluded he was close to being very ill. I called to Uncle Monty and suggested that he/they might like to get their friend some water. This was greeted by what can only be described as aggressive conjecture, and at the same instant Specky made a go of standing up, fell forwards onto the table and with an almighty crash brought himself, table, glasses, bottle and bucket, cascading onto the ground.

At this point I stood up with a V sign and said, ‘I told you that you should’ve got your mate some fucking water.’ Tory boy and another member of staff grabbed the unconscious Specky and hauled him outside as Mrs. P got to work on the mess. Over this scene of chaos, still stood at the bar, Monty continued to throw incoherent insults at me and for the first time in a long, long while, something within gently parted from reason and I concluded that I was going to hit Monty in the fucking mouth.

I took two steps forward when I felt a hand in my hair pulling me back and down into my seat. Monty disappeared sharpish and my gaze was met by a less than chuffed IC. ‘What are you doing?!’ She said. ‘By all means carry-on but if you do, I’m off home.’ My cries of justifiable offence weren’t hitting the mark, I was calmed down and we finished the bottle in relative silence with Mrs. P shooting me disgusted glances, which I thought was a bit bloody rich.

As we were leaving P, aware that we too were money-spending punters (albeit with much less extravagance than the recently departed piss-pots) fell into her obsequious stride and reluctantly bid us a ‘good evening.’

‘Fuck off,’ I said back, we exited onto the street and took the bus home.