(no subject)

Standing outside the pub, making the best of the newly tepid conditions. It's a bit chilly around the fingers, but we're here, with our beer, getting used to it. Besides, it's noisy indoors, there's a blare of sweat and shouting and over-amplified Anfums. As we were arriving an Essex Taxi, long as a bendy-bus and as white as the county's shoes and socks was pulling away.

Someone we know knows someone else who bowls up. He's a portly young fellow. In future millenia, archaeologists will wonder which influenced the other, the male habit of leaving the shirt untucked like a dishdasha flowing down over the belly, or the general growth in male circumference at the century's turn. 'Alright.', 'Ca va, et vous.', 'Less of the vous, I'm tu to you.' 'You going in?' 'What is it, party night? Someone's having a party.' He wobbles a bit and pirouettes, he has one of those middle of the face moustache-and-beard arrangements that are also still de rigeur among the comfortably structured. Happy chappie. Sticks his nose in through the door, then out, grinning. 'Faaackin 'ell. What is it about fat birds and Karaoke, eh? Innit though?' 'You're going in, aren't you?' 'I'm going in.' And he goes in.

'Was that...?' 'No, I don't know his name. Just some bloke.'