The Pakalolo taproom is quietish. Nesta is in the grub corner, doing something to a snake. Ingrid and the vicar are catwalking the bar, trying on each other's frocks. Every time one of them climbs up, Offside spotlights her/him with a torch, intoning "The Stripper". Greengrass puts a finger to his lips:
- Cease that bloody moanin', Offy. I'm pennin' a letter o' protest. Now - do you think that Ebren cuts our threads and directs our regulars to Zeph's place just because she writes idolising songs to him, or what?
- Sshhhhhhh. I'm trying to work here. Hey, vicar! You wanna move those hips, man, this isn't your regular Sunday service. We have to get our clientele back, and it's going to take a little bit more than that.
Offside shines the light in Greengrass's very dilated pupils, causing him to recoil in pain.
- Oh, sorry Gigi. Listen, I don't know what's going on with Ebren, but if you ask me, I'd say it's fishy, like. And Zeph's place is nice enough, but it's all poetry readings and fancy cocktails with little umbrellas in 'em and cricket talk. Cricket! (rolls his eyes). Oh, and you know what? I hear Kokomo wants to open his own joint now. Yeah, I wonder what kind of gig he'll put up for a Saturday night, ballet maybe...
(General laughter)
- Hey, vicar, concentrate, will ya? Do you want me to call Mimi for some proper motivation? Hmmm, didn't think so.
- That's the stuff, Offy - hit 'em where it hurts most! Yeh - poetry, tarty drinks and cricket, that's about it. I reckon Ebren really goes for the ladies, me. I mean, he was lusting for our Ingrid until a session among the kegs convinced him that she was a he. (Peers incredulously) Bloody 'ell, vicar, that's comin' it a bit strong!
- No, no, don't worry Gigi, that's part of the routine. And Ingrid doesn't mind, do you ingrid? ("She" rolls her eyes lasciviously). We need to liven things up a bit. But yeah, Ebren does like to have his little harem around. I'm not sure the fellow is all above board either, you know, who do you think called the cops the night Guitou ended up in jail? He's dodgy, I tell ya. He'll be asking us to write proper articles next.
- Yeh, summat like ”Five kosher articles, and you get a free t-shirt with a picture of Ebren. Ten articles, and he’ll sign it for you. Twenty - free off-topic ale for a week.” It’s sweated labour, that’s what it is. Fifty articles, a pub crawl with Mimi. Five taprooms, a pub crawl with Genghis Sidebottom...
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«Oldest ‹Older 201 – 208 of 208Zeph: you know The Magic Pudding? I thought I was the only one in this land who knew that! There's a weird sculpture in Melbourne celebrating Norman Lindsay's creation, and also a very very odd cartoon film of the book.
It's one of the best children's books ever. I remember being most incensed as a little girl because I had a copy that said it was a book for boys - I suppose because it's full of animals insulting each other and biffing each other on the snout - I thought it was perfect for lttle girls too.
"Onions, bunions, corns and crabs,
Whiskers, wheels and hansom cabs,
Beef and bottles, beer and bones,
Give him a feed and end his groans."
Terrific.
Knocks Sendak into a cocked hat, doesn't it?
Zeph, must go now as work in the morning, but how nice to find some shared literature. Catch you later.
Dear me, is that the time? Night all.
'I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour but heaven knows I'm miserable now'
learn to love me, assemble the ways
it's not exactly a sports pome, Marcela, but it could be...
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've held
It pays my way, and it corrodes my soul
I want to leave, you will not miss me
I want to go down in musical history
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, I'm a sickening wreck
I've got the 21st century breathing down my neck
I must move fast, you understand me
I want to go down in celluloid history, Mr. Shankly
Fame, Fame, fatal Fame
It can play hideous tricks on the brain
But still I'd rather be Famous
Than righteous or holy, any day
Any day, any day
But sometimes I'd feel more fulfilled
Making Christmas cards with the mentally ill
I want to live and I want to Love
I want to catch something that I might be ashamed of
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I've held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
Oh, I didn't realise that you wrote poetry
I didn't realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly
Frankly, Mr. Shankly, since you ask
You are a flatulent pain in the arse
I do not mean to be so rude
Still, I must speak frankly, Mr. Shankly
Oh, give us your money !
der schmitts unt Gunther Morrisey
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