Sil and I decided to go out on the town. Two chicks, a girls night out. Dressed to the nine’s and red paint at hand. We landed up at a dodgey placed called ‘The Poison Apple’. Snow White would not have approved, of this I am quite sure. After a few toots, and then dinner at Phat Boyz, we went in search for the new club in Scottburgh town called Kalipso. By the Pick ‘n Pay. I shit you not. Scottburgh is classy like that.
After driving round and round the parking lot, I was convinced that either the Toblerone coctails had gotten to me, or the Kalipso club was a figment of my Sil’s imagination. A few minutes later, I said “fuck this” and drove to the one pub I knew to be open and (hopefully) filled with a few patrons other than the old barman and bridge club members, Scruffy Murphey’s. Its not named that for nothing, folks, let me just make that clear right here and now.
The bathroom is unisex and has been under renovation since I was 16. The barman resembles an old hippie complete with tie-dye. But now he has assistance in the form of two times very sexy jail bait minors. Who I may or may not have hit on. And may or may not have hit on me right back, complete with free ‘special’ shooters handed over the bar counter.
There were guyliner wearing dudes everywhere, one emo oke and another dude with red fucking painted nails! One of them was grinding granny in the corner (I swear his chick was no younger than 46) and there was a mangy looking dog running around the place. I found a few floaters in the first couple of drinks, so I eventually asked for Spice ‘n Ice, sans ice. That seemed to work. Or maybe I was just too pickled to notice the floaters, whichever.
I have to tell you about the DJ. It was blonde. It had an affection for ‘Love Generation’, Enrique Iglasias & Ricky Martin’s ‘She Bang’. This deterred me not, I banged my hips, stomped my feet and shook my head along to the wacked out tunes regardless! The DJ was only visible to me from the forehead upwards as I am so vertically challenged, but I swear I saw make up, so presumed it was a chick. Until the voice came over the microphone. Far too deep. Far too husky. So naturally, like any normal person, I assumed it was a tranny. No biggie, no biggie. Until a few minutes later I noticed a kid walking out of the DJ box, only it wasn’t a kid. It was a midget. Who was also the DJ. Who had been standing on a chair, I think. Who made a bee-line for my breasteses.
Look, without going into detail here, I was ripped away from a very charming young man who resembled Justin Timberlake a few minutes later. I may have been snogging this said person, I can’t recall entirely, when I was tapped on my thigh and offered a shooter by the mini dude. Far too polite to decline, I accepted the shooter. Things went pear shaped from there.
I don’t want to tell you how. I don’t want to tell you why. And I’m not sure if I’ll ever live this down, but the evening ended promptly after an incident. The midget humped my leg. For real. And I will wake up with a hang over in the morning, its inevitable. But by god, I can cross off one item of my ‘never-to-do-again’ list, and thats to patronage a place called Scruffy Murpheys in, what the locals fondly deem, Scottsbeg.