Did Thatcher really say that any man over the age of 26 who finds himself on a bus should consider himself a failure?
No one on the top deck of the No 2 southbound from Park Lane yesterday lunchtime cared. I was busy sending my friend a photo of my amazing new pink pants, just as the bus zoomed past her office on
Vauxhall Bridge Road. Her conclusion was that they were too glam for the average toilet. They may yet make an appearance here.
A cheerful and funny black Londoner of West Indian descent to my right was busy talking about Ibiza, Pro-Plus, gym membership and various drug deals he was involved in while he built a skunk spliff. Two fellas of
Portuguese origins two rows in front of me listening to some
firey salsa on a mobile phone. But the most interesting bloke was directly in front of me.
While rolling a joint of his own, he kicked off by telling a woman on the phone that "sixty per cent of the music industry was gay" and that there was no way he'd be making "batty boy tunes" because there was "no need for that". Then he loudly explained that when he made love (he didn't say anything stronger than that) he didn't just make girls come, he made them squirt and that if the woman on the phone had not experienced this she had not had "GD", which he explained meant "good dick".
Unsettling stuff to hear on a bus and far too much information but no one hurtling around
Vauxhall Cross complained to the dude.
On South
Lambeth Road an attractive young woman dressed in tiny tight shorts and a snug boob tube walking slowly past the bus stop we had stopped at. Almost immediately the man in front saw her and alerted the
Portuguese lads. Soon the spliff-builder to my right and guys around him
lent over so half a dozen men of different races were soon
perving on the unsuspecting girl. Laughter and acknowledgement that summer had definitely began followed, even if the whole scene felt sleazy and sexist.
To Greenwich for beers with an old friend who edits three magazines about cranes. He was having difficulty deciding which shot to order in The Coach and Horses, a pub we usually avoid because of its idiotic no-smoking area enclosed by clear plastic walls.
The friendly barmaid suggested a slippery nipple. I said, "No way,
that's the kind of thing they drink in Essex." She was from said county and told me to fuck off.
Only Fools And Voices is perhaps the best name for a south London karaoke night imaginable, so congratulations to The Prince Albert on Royal Hill in Greenwich.
Posts
