The Bitter man has been abandoned by both wife and child: it is alright though, they’ve only gone to Ireland for a bit. And he’s only A Bitter Man because he likes bitter. It amuses me what becoupled people do, when temporarily decoupled. Many chaps take refuge in furtive fish finger sandwiches I have noticed. In my fettered days, I was quite capable of spending the odd day on my own sitting very motionless in my pajamas for several hours with a chicken and mushroom Pot Noodle. Now I am unfettered, I can of course, do this every weekend. And let me tell you: it never loses its appeal. In the few days before he is reunited with his family, The Bitter Man has been indulging himself with solitary pints, Mr Kipling Bramley Apple Pies and computer games. And tonight he was treating himself to a horror film at the ICA. I agreed to meet him for a drink beforehand.
Our initial plan was to meet at Benugo, the bar at the National Film Theatre. I like it because it has swirly sofas, olives and lampshades. The Bitter Man was suspicious that it may be filled with beard-stroking pretentious types. I find it is generally people by harassed sorts who don’t know where to put their coats and who are desperately trying to cram in a pint of Peroni in the 12 minutes they've got before their film starts. But we never got to test our theories as all the tables were reserved. Instead The Bitter Man met me at Waterloo station and we walked to The Marquis at Charing Cross.
I do feel reluctant about taking chaps to The Marquis. I always think they will object vociferously to the floral barstools that surreptitiously whisper wine bar at you and then look the other way whistling. It is not the most pub-like of pubs. But the Bitter Man said it was alright as they served London Pride. I was peeved because they still did not serve non-alcoholic lager.
As usual I had to make two attempts at mounting my barstool, while The Bitter Man laughed at me. I wish the stools were just a touch lower: I always feel like a stunted giraffe attempting to lay an egg in a tree. Non of this was helped by the Social Anxiety Buttock, or the Shingle Thigh. It was nice to talk to the Bitter Man though. He did not dwell quite so so much on his baby’s bowel movements this time. At one point he announced: “Sorry, I was looking at the barmaid’s bosom.” Apparently his wife has a look she bestows when the Bitter Man’s eye begins to wander. I do not know what it is so I was unable to implement it on her behalf. Instead I too became transfixed by the barmaid’s bosom. It was inevitable: it’s like when someone tells you not to imagine a white elephant. If I were her I would have assumed we were a pair of vile old swingers and then not removed any of our glasses for the rest of the evening in case we started dropping things on the floor and asking her to pick them up for us.
“Were you also checking out that lady’s legs at Waterloo station?” I enquired with interest, since we were on the subject. The lady in question had legs of such length that she would have been able to make the mounting of a Marquis barstool look positively balletic (whereas I make it look a little more like vaudeville). “Quite possibly,” replied The Bitter Man. “But it’s more likely that I was admiring her shoes. Working in an office full of women, I find I’m very interested in ladies’ footwear these days.” The Bitter Man was recently chastised by a colleague for complimenting his fellow workers on their footwear claiming it was inappropriate. Honestly - you can’t do anything these days. I am assuming he is just complimenting said footwear, not licking it, so where is the harm in telling a lady you like her shoe? This stands in stark contrast to Dennis Badgers evidently more liberal office in Milton Keynes, where he was today commiserating with a female colleague over her laddered tights.
After three lime and sodas (oh the tedium: of the drink, not the company). I went home and The Bitter Man went to see his film. Different destinies awaited us both.
The Bitter Man later reported that the cinema had been a veritable sauna. He began rearranging his clothing before the film started. He was undoing his shirt with one hand, foraging around his nether-regions for one dropped cufflink with the other, and staring over his shoulder in the gloom to gauge the attendance with his other cufflink clenched between his teeth. Naturally it was at this point that all the lights came on and the four female students in the row behind were startled by the crotch-fumbling pervert gurning straight at them. At least he didn’t comment on their footwear. Oh Mrs Bitter Man. Come back soon and keep an eye on him.
My evening concluded with me falling over a large box on my doorstep. I do love an unexpected box. I lurched into the flat and set about it with my trusty bread knife. It was a present from The Alcohol Free Shop, consisting of some ethereally lovely Super Bock Stout (oh blissful fluid) and a set of six proper Super Bock Stout lady glasses. I have one now, filled with alcohol-free ambrosia! I love a lady glass. This was a very nice surprise and made me laugh a lot. Thank you Alcohol Free Shop. You are a lovely shop.
Units Dodged: Five. The Bitter man had 2.5 pints and I reckon I could have happily matched that.
Non-alcoholic beer of the day: It’s cheating, I know, but it has to be Super Bock Stout all over again. Just imagine its dark velvety body and thick, creamy head. Go on… get some. You know you want to.
The Unit Dodger
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