Sunday, 26 February 2012

Another 24 Hours I'd Rather Forget

We've just returned to London, after having spent a lively twenty-four hours on the south coast with our friend, Kevin.
Personally, I wasn't in the mood for a trip to the seaside, but after Tony insisted that "the smell of the sea can do wonders for city boys like us", how could I have possibly refused.
Needless to say, our time on the coast was a complete and utter disaster, with Kevin's volatile behaviour causing us countless problems, which even Tony would have found hard to match.
Kevin peels potatoes for a living, and lives above a pub, so he's hardly the sort of man who has women knocking at his door. But, despite his status in life - which is lower than scum - he still thinks that he's the sort of man who women see as their ideal partner.
So, there we were in a rather downmarket nightclub, last night, when Kevin decided to try and charm his way into an attractive girl's underwear, by buying her a pint of lager, and telling her that he owns a string of property, and several vineyards in the south of France.
Of course, the poor girl saw our friend for what he really is, and after telling him that she found him as attractive as a dose of radiation poisoning, she thought that she had freed herself from the human potato peeler from hell.
But Kevin doesn't take rejection lightly, and insisted on clinging to his target - rather like a fly sticks to shit - hoping that the girl would eventually give in, and agree to his sordid demands.
Unfortunately, for our friend, the girl was with her boyfriend, who on seeing Kevin making a nuisance of himself, wasted no time in laying into him, and giving him the sort of beating that he won't forget in a hurry.
Tony said that he would have liked to have helped Kevin in his hour of need, but because the boyfriend looked like he got a kick out of making men bleed, and had more muscles than the entire British Olympic weightlifting team, he wisely abandoned our companion in his hour of need.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

Depressed, But Okay

So, The Man With The Golden Arm, as Tony likes to call himself, failed miserably in his recent attempt to win a local darts tournament, finishing only fifth, and walking away with a pathetic fifty pounds in prize money.
Of course, even such a small amount of cash came in very handy, with most of it being blown on lager and cigarettes, which Tony said was to help him to get over his very poor performance.
I've tried to cheer the boy up, but if losing at darts wasn't bad enough, Tony reckons that nothing can be as depressing in life as spending a few hours seeing what people have got to say for themselves on Facebook.
At first, Tony was delighted that he was making new friends all over the world, but recently he's become irritated by the amout of dross pouring into his inbox, and fucking up his profile.
For instance, Becky, 22, from Chicago told Tony that she can't sleep at night, because her boyfriend has just left her. She's now in such an emotional mess that she wonders if suicide is the only solution to her problem.
Tony replied to Becky that he doesn't give a fuck about her problems, and that he didn't join Facebook to make friends with people like her.
Then there's Debbie, 48, from the north of England, who although once used to rate highly in Tony's list of people he'd like to know better, has now done herself no good by sending all of her friends - Tony included - a recipe for strawberry and banana cheesecake.
Needless to say, the boy soon got back to Debbie, and told her that a recipe for turning water into lager would have been more appreciated, and can she now go away and die.
And if the personal messages aren't enough to completely demoralise my fat friend, the constant stream of adverts for pizza restaurants, romantic weekends away, and cheap air travel will eventually tip him over the edge.
So, we're now off to the pub to get away from Tony's friends, and hope that after a few hours of drinking strong lager, he'll be back to his normal self, and that the Queen of Cheesecake will be a thing of the past.

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Beware Of Low Flying Darts

Tonight Tony will be competing in a local darts tournament, when he'll be hoping to win the first prize of three hundred pounds.
To get in shape for the big event, the boy has spent all day perfecting his skills, by spending hours in his bedroom throwing darts.
I reckon Tony's got a fair chance of walking away with the first prize, even if the tournament will be bringing together some of south-east London's finest players.
However, I remember last year's tournament as if it was only yesterday, and still curse Tony's rotten luck, when in the final his game fell apart, with him eventually losing to an outsider.
Of course, it wasn't Tony's precision throwing that failed him on that occasion, but instead the vast amount of lager he had consumed during the opening matches, which he says was necessary for him to calm his nerves.
Naturally, by the time he made it to the final (somewhat miraculously) he was so hammered that his first three darts found their way flying into a rather excited crowd of supporters, who somehow avoided serious injury by ducking just at the right moment.
Tony went on to lose the final seven games to zero, complaining afterwards that his drinks had been spiked, and that "mysterious forces" had played havoc with his throwing arm.
I've told Tony that three hundred pounds would come in very handy right now, and if he wants to walk away a winner tonight, he's got to stay off the beer, and stick to drinking orange juice.
Tony can't remember the last time he drank orange juice, but because he sees himself as the next Tiger Woods of darts, and he realises that drinking beer and throwing sharp pointed objects don't go together very well, he's assured me that tonight not only will he end the day sober, but he'll also be a lot richer than he was this morning.

Sunday, 19 February 2012

Lager, Cigarettes & The Anglo-French Problem

We had a great evening last night, thanks to a couple of French female students we met in our favourite pub, and who are in London for a few days, to study the habits of English people living in London.
Of course, their perfume and chic clothes soon attracted Tony's attention, and although he would be the first to admit that the French aren't quite his cup of tea, even he admits that French women are certainly sexier than their British counterparts.
I reckon that the boy's right, and although Valerie and Beatrice were a little shy at first, they soon opened themselves up, when we started to ply them with strong lager and cheap cigarettes.
Valerie said that her studies have given her a whole new insight into English people, who the French generally view with an air of suspicion. She said that she now sees the English as an insular race, happy on their little island, unattached to the European mainland, and therefore unhindered by annoying and irritating neighbours.
Tony laughed when Valerie gave us her opinion of the English, saying that she was absolutely right, and that not having fucking Germany as a neighbour is something that the English are grateful for. He then suggested that we moved on to one of our preferred restaurants, because it being a Saturday evening, he was in the mood for a couple of double cheeseburgers and fries.
Needless to say, the girls joined us, and after dining on the finest burgers their money could buy us, Valerie and Beatrice joined Tony and me back at our flat, to help improve Anglo-French relations, and to bring the four of us a little closer together!

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Roses & Wine

Last night we had a great time at our favourite pub, where Sid, the landlord, held another of his Saint Valentine evenings.
Tony and me even managed to attract the attention of a couple of high-flying career-girls, who work for an investment bank, in the city.
Melinda and Becky are two of the sweetest Americans you would ever want to meet, and after wooing them with our witty humour, and selling them the last of our half-dead roses, the girls were soon looking to have a good time with Tony and me.
We left the pub just after eleven o'clock, allowing the girls to take us to a trendy wine bar, which they said they frequent on a regular basis.
Sadly, once inside, we wished we had stayed back in the pub, where the ambiace was a hell of a lot better than that of the wine bar.
Tony reckons that we would have been better off going to the local morgue, where he says the atmosphere would have been merrier, and the conversation probably better.
Even the beer was shit - and expensive - although because I like to try anything once, I decided to sample a glass of Bordeaux, which the very gay barman said was oozing with the taste of south-west France.
I told Toby, the barman, that the wine was fucking awful, and I would have preferred something that was oozing with the taste of lager.
But if the lack of decent drink wasn't enough to depress the two of us, when we saw Melinda and Becky kissing passionately, we soon realised that our two friends not only had a shit choice in drinking establishments, but that they were also of the lesbian variety.
C'est La Vie, as they say in France - or Fuck This, We're Off, as Tony and me said, as we slipped out of the bar, leaving Melinda, Becky, and the barman from hell.

Sunday, 12 February 2012

The Fastest Man In South-East London

Last night was karaoke competition night in the pub, and although there was some tough opposition, Tony managed to walk away with fifty pounds in cash, after winning the competition.
The boy never ceases to amaze me with his many hidden talents, and although he hardly comes across as a crooner, his rendidtion of My Way had the pub crying out for more.
Of course, we soon blew all of the cash on strong lager and cheap cigarettes, after which Tony took to the stage for a second time, delighting us all with his version of the Elvis Presley classic, It's Now Or Never.
Sid, the landlord of our favourite pub, reckons that Tony could have been a great singer, adding that he's much better that some of the singers who pop up from nowhere these days.
I agree with Sid, and am not surprised that Tony won last night's competition, because he's a man who has a winning mentality.
After all, the current holder of the pub's speed-drinking record is Tony, who just before Christmas managed to drink eight pints of lager in just under thirty minutes. Tony also holds the local how many cheeseburgers can you eat in three minutes record*, together with the regional title of Fastest Man To Drink Five Litres Of Ice Cream**.
Tony is proud of his achievements, and although some people would say that he's just a useless, fat bastard, who has nothing better to do all day, apart from taking part in eating and drinking competitions, I have to disagree, and only hope that he wins more money in the future, so we can continue to drink ourselves senseless, whilst having one hell of a good time!

* He managed to eat seven.
** He did it in six minutes, and thirty-seven seconds.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Say It With Flowers

With Valentine's Day rapidly approaching, Tony reckons that the opportunities to make a quick pound are there to be taken.
I have to admire the boy's spirit, even if I'll probably find myself on the 14th February selling stolen flowers to passers-by, who can't believe just how cheap our roses really are.
Last year we made a killing at the pub, with Tony and me offloading most of our dodgy flowers to drunken men, who had forgotten to buy their loved ones something for the special day.
Too much alcohol can lead grown men to do the strangest of things, which include paying twenty pounds for a couple of half-dead roses.
Still, the boy says that his role in life is to bring happiness to others, and that somewhere in south-east London there are plenty of men who'll be "saying it with flowers" next Tuesday, thanks to Tony Joy and Dave Cooper.
We're now off to the pub for a couple of pints, and to discuss our plans for Easter, when we'll be hitting the streets with chocolate eggs, wind-up bunnies and anything else that could make us a quick profit.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Andy The Arsonist

This afternoon we're off to visit an old friend of ours, Andy, who's currently serving a three week prison sentence for arson.
To get to the prison where he's currently incarcerated involves travelling across London, which is something that I'd rather not do today, because (a) it's very cold outside and (b) Sundays are made for sitting in the pub.
But Tony is adamant that this afternoon we'll do our best to bring a smile to our friend's face, who wouldn't be where he is today, if he hadn't decided to burn down his old school.
Tony reckons that the attack was Andy's way of telling society that his old teachers never gave him the education he deserved, and it's because of them his life has become a total disaster.
I can't say that I agree with Tony, because as I told him, Andy's criminal record proves that the boy is no stranger to the long arm of the law, and that he has no concept of what is right, and what is wrong.
Tony's says that I'm being too harsh on our friend, and that although he's served time for shoplifting, drug dealing, car theft, handling stolen goods, stalking, and urinating in public, he's basically a good man, whose gone slightly off the rails.
I have to admire Tony's ability to see some good in even the lowest form of human life, and have told him that I hope Andy appreciates the fact that we're going to forsake a Sunday afternoon in the pub, to visit him.

Wednesday, 1 February 2012

True Love On A Wednesday Night

We've just come back from the pub, where as usual, the first Wednesday of every month is singles night.
Tony has always been a big singles night fan, reckoning that one of these days he's going to find a perfect woman, and that the one thing that has evaded him for so long - true love - will eventually come knocking at his door.
Of course, although he's a foul-mouthed, shaven-headed, hideously fat, good for nothing loser, Tony reckons that somewhere out there, in the concrete jungle that is south-east London, there is waiting for him a woman who was put on this planet to bring pleasure to his life, and always remain loyal to him.
Personally, I've yet to meet such a woman, and after seeing the usual load of dross on offer tonight, I reckon that Tony's got to broaden his horizons, if he really wants to find true love.
The boy says that I'm too fussy, and whilst I may see the women of south-east London as dogs of the two legged variety, he sees them as rough diamonds, whose hidden qualities are enough to bring a smile to the average man's face.
Of course, he may be right, but if fat Brenda, 47, from just down the road is anything to go by, having rough sex with her is not on my list of priorities.
But love can do strange things to men, and whilst I'm now going to watch the television, and enjoy a cold can of lager, I see that Tony has closed his bedroom door, and is no doubt about to do things with Brenda that only men as desperate as him would ever do, with a woman as ugly as her.