Head over to the Duke for refreshment and civil conversation. I turn out to be lucky and encounter Smitty and Pmmp and chinwag with them, then I am subjected to a barrage of insults from Daywalker, have an intellectual discussion with master wordsmith Bangkok Bad Boy and sit opposite Werewolf who after a couple of hours meets your gaze in an off beam way by staring at a point 6 centimetres to the right of your head.
John Brown pops in wearing Hawaiian shirt number 47 and helps me put credit on my phone. We order some mixed starters and all talk about nothing in particular.
To round the evening off perfectly some of us hit the gogos mixing the in-yer-face proximity of the naked Rubenesques of the Cactus Club, The 5 star rockers and the Baccara spinners in their schoolgirl outfits.
That dancer in whatever bar it was who has perfected the booty shuffle comes to sit next to me and drinks her coke. I want to tell her that I plan on going home alone but never get round to it. One butt cheeks fits perfectly into the cup of my hand. I resist slipping a finger up as I have popcorn to eat – got to get my priorities right – right?
Fatigue slowly gets to me as I bid farewell to the gang. Werewolf is shortly going to lose his wallet, his mobile phone or both, but it’s like the tides of the sea –inevitable – who am I to interfere?
Doctor Bond
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