Rib Nite (1): Relax!

Bootstraps flapping.

Beneath a fat faced, blazing howler, that is bowling round the bay, i stroll, zither in zip bag, down the coast and, in my sequinned, second best Sunday-best, count off, once again, my every footstep to The Eight Kings.

The Pot Noodle hoodie crews, having low-slung motor vehicles and box-fresh, shiny, training shoes, lace up and down that lonely stretch of mile at some subsonic speed.


And, in the ‘after dark you park for free’, they smoke badly rolled home-toke – the come-to-get-ya weed. Get red-eye paranoia in a bucket seat. They soundtrack their conversation with boom box bark and pretend at southern bar-room brawl.

They holler favourite cuss, soak the asphalt with metaphoric phallic spat and brag their greatest shag and how so and so and, yep, your mum, is such a dirty slag.

“But, I’d bag her.”

Oh, please! I’ve had the misfortune to be sat beneath a certain Turkish cowboy barber’s clipper guard on Front Street on a Saturday and, while he butchered me and leaned too hard onto my arm, and blew sweaty nothing in my ear, I listened, in the smear of mirror, to all the sad reflections of said bowlegged motherfuckers, sat around me, and knew, without a shadow or a fear, that every single one of them was nothing but a liar and that the closest anyone of those waxy virgins had ever cum to snatch was a chicken fingered hand jive into the crease of a jizzy jazz rag. Or, bored a fairground doughnut rigid. Still, you gotta have a hobby.

The moon, she played the water, all indigo and shattered glass.

Watch out for shards when swimming after dark.


Monday night is Open Mic & Rib Nite. Pig Bill, who runs The Eight Kings, talcum in his hair, has this way of writing up the chalkboard in American, despite that continent being way, way over there. So far over there that, if somehow, someone could put you there, for instance, now, in the blink of an eye, you’d find it still to be only yesterday and nowhere near tonight.

Nite. It’s affected, but I like it.

All players get a token pint & a deal on surf n turf. Or, a rack of ribs. I make it my way to eat before sundown and last I had a drink was back in summer, so these enticements, to my mind, they coax, very little.

I ask the barmaid for a pot of tea. But, she thinks I’m joking. She brings me slimline tonic when I ask for sparkling water.

Her tee shirt tells me to RELAX.

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