Funny bit from the book Im currently reading. About a friday night in Whitley Bay (by Sunderland). I went into the Avalon, a bar whose walls, covered as they were with bits of old motorbike, suggested to me that here was a biker pub. It was packed. A cluster of men all wore matching T-shirts, printed with the same photograph of a man, above which was the legend: Barrys Getting Married!!! I grabbed a pint and took it outside. A group of girls dressed in pink latex nurses outfits went by pushing a similarly attired young woman in a shopping trolley with L-plates attached front and back. A group of lads outside a pub shouted Get your tits out! and the girls dutifully obliged, so that at least a dozen pale breasts in various shapes and sizes lined up and wobbled in front of me. The evening wore on. A group of men strolled by carrying pints of bright green goo. A scuffle broke out on the opposite pavement. A middle-aged woman sat on the kerb and put her head between her legs, releasing a cataract of watery vomit, A group of nuns wobbled past. Loud music blared out from the bars. It was easy to imagine David Attenboroughs hushed, dulcet voiceover: And here we have Henus geordius· and Staggus scotus gathered at their watering holes, engaged in ritualistic courtship behaviour, exposing their bare backsides to each other, many wearing traditional tribal grass skirts or togas. At a certain point in the ritual, some of the tribe members will collapse exhausted to the ground, while others will engage in the serious business of rutting. At this point, tribal elders in blue uniforms will present them with ceremonial bracelets. At some stage of the evening, mating will occur, often done publicly so fellow tribe members can communicate their appreciation.
Posted on: Thu, 04 Sep 2014 07:17:26 +0000
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