|
SATURDAY, 19 AUGUST, 2000, in the English Countryside |
|
First off, a grateful nod to my dear host Rupert who not only provided your bungling Marquis with a comfy sofa and running water, but provided terribly engaging chats and introductions to some interesting people. And as he is the brother of Mlle. Badjuju, and thus proud owner of some damn fine genes, it is my duty to inform you, lucky ladies, that he is “between engagements” just at the moment and I feel certain he would put you up in exchange for a little hanky-panky, if you happen to be lovely of course. (Soz, Roop. Do you mind me pimping you? You shouldn’t. I’m glad to do it.) Next bit o’ biz — apologies to dear Señor Garcia with whom I finally made arrangements for drinky-pooh-poohs at a charming pub on Charing X Rd. — the which whereof meeting was cancelled due to the bleedin’ Jubilee line of the Tube holding me hostage in a dingy falopian under Ye Olde River Thames for the better part of an hour. Naturally, our summit meeting of fabulously entertaining minds did not go through because only a fool would wait in a pub for some dubious Amurkin git for more than half an hour — and Garcia is no fool, it would appear. Let’s try again in a couple of weeks when I pass through London again, eh, chiquito? Speaking of awful American gits, there are a gaggle of them some seats behind me, speaking ever so loudly, asking poor, harried Mr. Train Man if this train goes to Eed-un-burgue and complaining loudly that “we haven’t had a scone yet! Marge, ask theeat mee-ann if they surve scones on dis train, you understand the accent bettur!” Everyone else in the car is shifting uncomfortably and rolling their eyes. Sorry if I reek of anti-patriotism for my country, but these fools behind me be some hekka-dang ugly Amurkinz, know what I’z sayin’? “Haw haw haw! Look at them sheeps when they run from duh train! Sheep are so dumb!” Well, at least that last sentence was all right, containing all four necessary parts of a grammitcally sound sentence: Subject, verb, predicate and irony. I am at the moment chugging along through the English countryside on a particularly cramped GNER train, and the lovely girleegoo with whom I was brushing thighs at King’s Cross station has since moved across the passageway to a little tablette where she is munching her Burger King with beestung lips I dream to sit upon. The lips, not the burger. Hi girleegoo! Hi! You’re being written about for a global audience and you don’t even realise it! Hi! She has one of those faces that leaves an indelible etching in the eye. (Ouch! Me eye!) I am reminded of another beautiful face I saw recently driving from Philly to Washington to catch a plane for England. I approached the tollbooths for the Delaware Turnpike or whatever you’re paying a toll there for, quite expecting the usual flat-vowelled hag to grab my $2 and scowl at me. Instead, I was met with a vision of a lanky, early 20’s girl with high, prominent, sad and beautiful cheekbones à la Jodie Foster, and parenthetical hair that framed her face à la Julianne Moore. Her head was cocked at such an angle that seemed to speak novels — a novel of disillusionment, boredom, yet peace and acceptance of the world and her place in it. I think she was also expecting the driver of my shitbox car to be some fatted reptilian Delawese wanker, and was perhaps shocked that I was lovely. We exchanged a lingering glance as I held my $2 out the window, hanging there like a … well, like an unfinished transaction. “You have a beautiful face,” I said, though not to her. I said it to myself about her face, carrying on our imaginary conversation for the next hour driving through Maryland. “You have a beautiful face.” Not exactly the height of “esprit d’escalier”, but I wonder if she would have been pleased to hear it. Speaking of beautiful faces, in a copule of hours this train pulls into Edinburgh where I shall eagerly ring up the divine Miss Jooj and so shall begin a couple of (I dare to prophesy) glorious weeks in her company as we flit about Scotland like two angels o’er a swamp o’ mucky festivalites. More later, ya wee lads. Halfway to Edinburgh, pulling into a station, seeing this billboard: So specific, them Yorkies. 
|
   |