...can be choosy
When I first moved into London, about 10 years or so ago, I landed a job near London Bridge. Nice place to work, not bad money, lots and lots of bars to go drinking in every evening.

I suddenly had a better paid job than I'd ever had before, was living gratis with a very generous mate and I did what any self respecting individual would in those circumstances: I went out drinking every single evening.

I got into some pretty hideous states, but none more than on the night when the beggar got choosy.

I'd already rightly and politely been asked to leave a restaurant as my excessive use of the word cunt was offending my fellow dinners. This wasn't helped by my very loud mouthed Kiwi friend bellowing "You can't say cunt in here" at me each time I said it.

This was followed by my mistakenly meandering up the escalator towards the Northern Line before realising it was nowhere near where I needed to be; I choose to yell this at the top of my lungs, interspersing what should have been a simple sentence with a gratuitous array of profanities, then barged my way back down the escalator, stumbling to a drunken heap at the bottom.

Having picked myself up again I went on a mini adventure as I tried my best to find my way onto the overground platforms, while swigging at a can of beer and swearing at unsuspecting tourists. Once there I did everything in my power to find my platform and finally slumped in a doorway marked private while rolling what I assumed to be a cigarette, although I couldn't really tell.

Only as I lifted my hand to my face, fist clenched as though grasping a lighter and my thumb curled ready to strike the wheel, that I realised my hand was bereft of flame and I would need to engage with a stranger in order to add fire to my fag.

I scanned both the platforms that were waving in and out of view before my eyes and spied a tramp at the foot of each of the sets of stairs that seemed to be swimming in and out of each other. "I'll ask them" said my face and I stumbled to where they were swigging from their can of Special Brew and shouting at the pigeons.

"Eshcushe me, mishter" I managed, "would you be sho kind ash to add fire to the end of thish, pleashe?"

They eyed me curiously, simultaneously mumbled to themselves about just how disgusting it was demonstrating such unnecessary drunken behaviour, then barged past me and wobbled up the platform, only narrowly avoiding both the trains that were pulling in at precisely the same time.

I think I slept on those stairs for some minutes before I was asked to leave the station; either train or the exit would suffice, so long as I fucked right off and didn't return until I was in a state more fitting with being in a public place.
( Moey, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 14:00, Reply)