Funny stories. The Trouble with British Beer by Andrew McIntyre. Enjoy your day, Yareah friends. Art is everywhere!
THE TROUBLE WITH BRITISH BEER
We’re slumped in the St. John’s College bar. Dino’s talking about chewing gum, draining his eighth pint. Closing time in half an hour, two pints in front of me. Paal curry destroying my stomach.
“You’re slow,” Dino nags, tapping his fingers on the table.
“You can have some,” I grumble.
He stares malevolently through rheumy eyes, “You have to drink it, you know the rules.”
“You were saying,” I mutter.
“Chewing gum,” I prompt.
“Oh, yes.” He burps, “Yes, aha, yes, well, aham, this fellow I met from Doncaster, he goes to the bog to piss, he can hardly walk, he comes back complaining about the chewing gum. Well it turned out he put money into the Durex machine, and ate one thinking it was chewing gum, he was shouting, ‘Worst bloody chewing gum I ever tasted.’”
“Stupid northern bastards,” Ronnie grins. “Someone wrote on a Durex machine, where it says BSI, British Standards Institution, someone wrote, ‘So was the Titanic.’”
I remember the chewing gum machine in the bogs, “Fresh Mint Wrigley’s Fresh For You.” Scrawled underneath, “And My Smegma.” I don’t bother to mention the detail. I’m worrying about the beer, what Dino will say when I can’t drink it. And I’ll be shitting fire in the morning, Freddy Mercury up my arse all night.
Dino grins, “Look at Boon.”
Boon from Harvard, sleeping in a puddle of beer, one of the best mathematicians of his generation.
“Always complaining the beer’s too warm,” says Dino. “Bloody Yanks.”
Boon, six feet eight in his socks, rowing for the university. He has finished his beer, no-one can keep up with him. Empty tankards around his head.
Dino reaches over, placing a glass under the table, “Can’t be bothered to go to the bog.” Simpering, he sings falsetto, “I am the king of scurf I am, they know me everywhere, I am the king of scurf I am I never wash my hair, I am the king of scurf I am, yeah yeah yeah yeah.” He thumps the full glass back on the table, yellow brown liquid with a frothy head.
I tap the rim, “Prime bitter.”
Ronnie chants Gregorian, praying, “It is, amen.”
Boon wakes, a deep groan emanating from within his vast frame. Opening a huge eye, he stares at his watch, wiping beer from his face. He spies the pint of piss and, before we can warn him, he opens his throat, downing the lot. “Thanks guys,” he booms, lumbering towards the bar. “Next round’s on me.”
Ronnie and I are crying with laughter.
Standing, Dino bows, undulating his arms, “Gentlemen, consider yourselves privileged, you have just witnessed a metaphor.”