ah yes...what is written below, is a stream of conciousness from my own fair trotters...
it was a foggy evening in london town, 1704...well, ok, it was dahn the Strand at four minutes past five...we met, we greeted and then strolled to the boozer...the fabled Lycheum, London, England...
We settled upon some appropriate seating material, bought drinks, and it was about 5-6 minutes in, that, like the trembling children we were, we both produced our cards...
and from then on in, a magnificent haze of smoke, mind-reading, cards, and a regurgitation of a bent coin - there were also words dissapearing and changing on one sheet of paper...cards were lost and found like hated children - bound and gagged in uncle's attic...made sticky by beer...
we were under the hateful glare of australian barmaids, who insisted on clearing up our billets...passers-by eyeing us with caution...and some stationary frenchmen talking...well...french...
i came back from the w.c. after 3 pints of strong beer, bladder reverting to its normal hot-water bottle shape...to see mr. blake accosted by said frenchmen...i overheard what could only be described as "voulez-la-la-ce-na-ce-pont-du-pont n'est pas?"...well, thats how i remember it anyway..they also apologised for a war and bottling it when threatened by The Hun...
Sexton, being the kind soul he is, forgave them with a dismissive glance, and produced their thought of cards...we drank more...
..and then more cards and shush now gentle reader, more intuition based drama...laughter, yet more drinks and toilet visits...and then even more of the French...
Out of This World appeared, with an off the cuff "i've only seen someone get 87% correct before..."
Mr. Blake vanished a coin, only for it to be regurgitated by my hairy self into my hand...and then very strangely...warped and bent in one of their hands...
Suitable smug and daper, we drank yet more, smoked, laughed and toasted the evening with some Algerian dancers, i wrestled a bear to the ground, and then to top the evening off; one last wee-wee...
Mr. Blake left to go about his nefarious business in a nearby hotel, whilst i sloped off like a giant inelegant wolf hunting for dirty, rancid meat...
which i found convieniently packaged in McDonalds...
I woke next morning, heaving of cigarettes, fine wines and covered in french fries...and as i picked that small cold form of chip from my duvet, i could of sworn that it spoke to me, in a soft french accent - "zut alors..."
...and then i ate it...it tasted of the victory of a very fine evening...
I salute you old bean
