Meanwhile, ‘Hogget and Homeless’ were joined by an assortment of beings who were no less astonishing in their deportment and incongruity. They included two women who had moulded themselves on the ‘Sam Fox’ model – straight peroxide hair, Benidorm tans, botox lips, aggressive tits, tight jeans, tight tops and high heels, accompanied by their pet chimp – a slouching skinhead with a thug’s face and the insolent swagger of the inner-city estate. Homeless and the Chimp were obviously great pals and barked and whined at each other like happy seals whilst the women settled themselves on the points of their chairs and stilettos, clicked their candy-coated fingernails and erupted into gossip.
The drinks arrived, followed assuredly by the food, which was actually pretty good. Wine flowed, in Alex’s case, beer in mine, and I began to warm to this outpost of strangeness which seemed to cater for the entire social spectrum in a way that was endearingly democratic.
By this stage Hogget and Homeless had taken their leave and the queer trio of Sam Fox mark one and mark two (mark one being the more authentic, generously endowed specimen, two being the rather pale imitation who would not have turned heads had she not been in the company of one) and the Chimp, filled out to claim the space. The women were knocking back glasses of Chardonnay in between puffs on two fat cigars whilst the Chimp would periodically leap to his feet and pace up and down the pavement like a caged beast, a plaintive cancer stick wedged between fingers with or without the prop of his mobile phone. On one such peregrination he crouched down and stubbed out his cigarette on the bumper of an old boat-like Mercedes parked in front. There was a growl of indignation from my left. Evidently the chariot belonged to the Captain.
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Sorry Gov, I did wipe it off.”
“You can’t just put your bloody fag out on someone’s car!”
The Chimp’s breast swelled in counter indignation.
“Alright, alright! I apologised didn’t I? You talk to me wiv a bit more respect!”
The situation was threatening to get nasty – the drama on the point of getting a little bit more dramatic. The Captain glanced over at me and caught my eye. It was a look of appeal, as if to say “You’re witness to the destructive actions of this oik, you’ll back me up in this confrontation won’t you?” I looked away guiltily, before the eye had a chance to say, “Well on your feet man and cry God for England and St George!” impelling me to run flailing at the waiting Chimp. The truth was that I was on the Captain’s side although I did think he could have handled things with more finesse, and bowed out when he received the first apology. I wasn’t willing to risk indigestion – and indeed the possibility of a full-scale bar room brawl – for the sake of a smudged bumper.
Glaring like a provoked salamander, the Chimp returned to his table, the Captain muttered into his bib and reached for his coat and dust settled over the scene. Catastrophe averted.
