Table Swearing and Rap Stars
Mon Vieux,
"Well in that case why don't you just fuck off? I mean it, just fuck off. Go on fuck off."
When was the last time you were able to sit at a table in a fashionable restaurant and offer these words at a not inconsiderable volume in the comfortable knowledge that all those gathered, save the recipient, were full-square behind you? It was my first time, but then I've led a very sheltered life. More of this later.
I'm thinking of taking up the 'mike' and becoming a rap star. It many be a little late in the day to parade around sans-chemise but I can concentrate on the delivery. My enthusiasm stems in no small part from seeing Mr Eminem's new moving picture entitled 8 Mile. I had no idea the little whipper-snapper could string 'em together like that - 'I wish I had an ass (arse) big enough so the whole world could kiss it...' I was quite taken with his performance and was so moved that I bought his latest pop recording. Included upon which is a short segment where fellatio is supposedly performed by Jay-Z and Shaggy, two other chaps from the same field I gather. You know I think he's had a few one liners that wouldn't have been entirely out of place around our own tables.
But urban music aside fear not old love, I have been pursuing the good life as ever. Last week saw me finally put an end to my luggage problems once and for all. To date I have been travelling with a highly serviceable Globe-Trotter. They've been making 'em in England since 1850 and I hitherto felt that I would be with one for life. That was until I walked into a fashionable clothing emporium and found no less than a fully functioning steamer trunk. And not a crusty old cob-webbed number either. This one is brand-spanking new in pale vanilla leather with heavy black leather edges and corners. My God even the mechanism of the lock is a work of art.
I knew such things were still being made by those hoary old fashion dinosaurs like Prada and Louis Vuitton, but aside from being astronomically expensive they were also unwieldy and horrible pretentious. The little gem I acquired is certainly big and let's not deny it'll take a bigger man than me to lug it up stairs (porter anyone?). But the thought of pointing it out on a luggage carousel amongst the sort of limp-wristed, soft-sided, techni-coloured frippery that abounds gives me a rush of blood I haven't felt since my first suit fitting. And as for plucking a pristine Prince of Wales from it's depths and rifling through the neatly folded shirts in it's drawers, well my heart is racing.
Lest I get all hot and bothered let me share with you the circ.'s surrounding my righteous smiting of a fellow diner. Last week my old pal JG (you've met I think) was in town and he invited me and the wife to a dinner with two of his business friends. I accepted not realising that these included the pissiest little fashion stylist in the English speaking world. Knowing my distaste for such ponces JG actually asked me to make sure I wasn't rude to the little fuck, (big mistake).
The little toe-rag was every bit as annoying as predicted and I endured several hours of his cold, clipped, snippy comments until, as luck would it, another guest (a hairdresser no less!) leapt up in the air and offered to fight JG outside. Apparently he'd taken offence at being called a 'poxy little fucking hairdresser' - Italians can be so temperamental.
Anyway once they'd gone outside and smoothed it all over we settled down to dinner, then not five minutes later JG simply got up and disappeared. I later discovered that he'd had enough and gone home without telling anyone, pausing only to pay the bill on his way out.
With JG absent I felt obliged to entertain the mad Itie and the annoying midget so I drank quickly and tried to make light of the situation. The little fuck wasn't having it and so after having endured several hours of his attitude (as they say here) I asked him why he was being so rude. He denied everything and accused me of the same. With JG's career in mind I apologised (perhaps a little sarcastically) and then when he refused to be graceful I made the suggestion with which I began this letter. That hit the spot quite satisfactorily and he acquiesced leaving a very odd party in his wake. Drunk and righteous I went for a further drink with the mad Itie and in the morning berated JG for leaving me there. Obviously he had no cause to criticise me for my outburst given his own behaviour so it went down as New York experience.
So old love, as you can see it's all rolling along. If my rap career doesn't take off I shall have to confine my attempts at bon mots to the page, but I suppose that'll be all right.
Er, peace out,
Cool Mo S.
(Yours aye,
S.)