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13 November
2015
Humour
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I Went to Londoners Pub Last Night

i went to Londoners last night,
Londoners Pub at Strathaven Shops,
been a while since i’d been there,
1999 to be sure and that night i passed out in the car park,
passed out in the passenger seat,
passed out on top of some girl,
don’t remember her name,
my boys called her “the graduate”,
coz she wore one of those short black dresses with the flared out sleeves,
passed out with my jeans half-way pulled down and no sex happened,
passed out and was lucky cops didn’t look inside the car and bust us,

cheap brandy,

so we walked into Londoners Pub last night and i was skeptical about the whole thing,
had had a fucking awesome dinner at Coimbra and i didn’t want to spoil the night,
had had fuckloads of garlic on my grilled chicken because i had no intentions of chatting to girls,
that by the way is a most overlooked benefit of being single,
it can be garlic all day every meal and no fucks can be given in any direction,
garlic also wards off evil spirits – and thirsty wenches,
Londoners has changed somewhat from what it was in 1999,
it’s still dark and dingy but it has a Highfields pa MaStones vibe,
like kwaChikwanha Lite,
Like “Nairobi Nights Mazhizhizhi – Drink With Someone You Know” but not in Glen Norah A,
we walked up to the bar and avoided making eye contact,
i noticed the “Oxford St” sign on the wall,
next to the “Picadilly Circus” red circle,
the whole London theme still stays strong,
i showed Sean and he just shrugged,
Sean is a Scot and he’s not into the whole Brittanica thing right now,
thoughts on Tipperary’s Pub & Grill,
none of the STD’s floating there on any given night have any idea that it was a fancy Irish-themed pub in a past life,

Londoners Pub,

dj was playing ‘Murder She Wrote’ when we walked in,
then he faded it gently and morphed it into ‘Bam Bam’,
scenes from Turtles Nite Club – Afternoon Session,
scene to my right,
guy sitting on a bar stool,
vixen grinding her bum on his crotch- to the rhythm of the beat,
second guy slowly reverses into her and she grabs him,
now its a threesome,
grinding and dipping and Pliers from the speakers,
i’m too old for this,
now it’s just straight to the sex,
she calls, or you call her, she comes over, i go over,
then it’s sweating and screaming and KY and all sorts and then it’s going back to your place,
the party next door has it right,
foreplay right there in the pub,
grinding and teasing and getting hard right there at the bar,

the vixen pulls away and comes over to the bar,
right next to me and motions to the bar lady,
she surely should never have lifted her arm,
oh but she did,
in a crowded stuffy dim lit pub,
full of dancing bodies in varying states of cleanliness,
her particular brand of stink hit me,
she reached out her arm towards the bar lady and her rancid smell charged at me,
Pamplona,
her armpit unleashed a fury of the ages,
an assault on my nostrils that shut out the sound of the music,
it was a deafening silence, my entire being smothered by clouds of fermented sweat,
i covered the opening of my castle can,
stuck my thumb over it,
desperate attempts to limit the reach of the vixen’s pong,
flashback to high school chemistry practical and the teacher demonstrating what a pungent smell is,
instant memories of ammonia gas hitting me in the nose and delivering a swift sharp kick to the back of the head,
assault by scent, death by nasal means, murder by numbers,
it was time to leave.

Farai Mudzingwa

Farai writes irregularly and irreverently from what’s left of Harare.



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