There was a boozer
And the boozer was in a cellar in central Leeds.

In the mid-late 90's Leeds was rolling in financial sector money and I was amongst it. I never saw anyone light a cigar with a £50 note but we had big salaries and reckless profligacy. I'd say it was the best time of my life.

In some ways it was - I was savvy enough to invest and that's made me comfortable today. In some ways it wasn't - that's another story.

This cellar bar. It was the best boozer in Leeds. It had a DJ called Manny who would play you what you wanted, and if he didn't have it he'd get it next week. Big on Jazz funk, still the only DJ I know with the original version of "Groovin' with Mr Blow". Occasionally broke into hardcore ska for kicks.

Vomit - yes. For on one fine Friday evening we rolled up there. One of our colleagues, Bernie, had taken the day off to get gloriously drunk and met us in the depths.

Bernie was ever so drunk. Very, VERY drunk. But Manny is playing his stuff and you can't help - if you have a pulse - to jiggle up and down a bit. At the best of times Bernie was a bit dull but he always had a sense of rhythym.

Gentle oscillation was quite enough to stir the unspeakable contents of Bernie's guts and we watched as his palour faded into a gentle puce. Then lime. Then he gagged, retched, and shot a polychromatic tiger onto the dance floor.

Bernie wasn't a gentleman, but some atavistic gene made him put his hand to his face as his ill-begotten repast erupted from his intestines. Four fingers against your gob during a Krakatoa vom explosion has the effect of spraying the contents of your guts eveywhere. Watch a farmyard muckspreader and you'll get the picture.

So what do we have here then? Probably one third of a small dance floor sprayed with the erstwhile contents of Bernie, who is wiping his hand on his nylon trousers, feeling unburdened, and ready to dance the night away.

We're in a cellar bar, let me remind you. The lighting is dim, the music is kicking, there's a lake of vom on the the floor and who should come towards us but the office slapper. Will strip for a few quid, or a few drinks, or just if she feels like it.

This time she's making for the still recovering Bernie. Presumably he's looking vulnerable in his panting, handwiping, getting-his-breath-back crouch.

And it's dim. And she skids in the lake of vom and goes flat on her back in it. I told you that Bernie wasn't a gentleman. Perhaps he was, because he offered her the lately-wiped hand and hauled her out of the lagoon with it.

Comparatively for us, it's early. We've got a pool of sick to dance around, office slapper with crusty bits drying on her back to fondle and Manny laying good sounds down. Get in!

The cellar bar is now a strip club. I've lost touch with all the participants of the above except one. Good times, eh?

x
( The Disappointed Caravanner of the year, Sun 10 Jan 2010, 23:27, 1 reply)

admit it
it's the office slapper
(bamboozled Can hear you getting fatter, Mon 11 Jan 2010, 1:24, closed)