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Through a glass artily

It’s not often that your correspondent will confess to even knowing a Philistine, let alone having one as a drinking mate. But that fat fuck Denzil has proper crossed the line, this time.

Ok, he’s previously been found in the corner of The Oirish Pub pissing himself laughing when he realised that the word ‘artisanal’, when broken into three, can produce the term ‘art is anal’, but we’ll let him off that one. This time, however, he’s proper bollocksed it.

Surprising as it may sound - and it does sound surprising - we were invited to a ‘vernissage’ at one of those swanky little galleries around the Sablon. Loads of piss-poor wines, unidentifiable and inedible snacks that Nigel Slater wouldn’t have fed to his cat and poncy, arty types who couldn’t tell a dollop of the shocking grub from Van Gogh’s sawn-off lug ‘ole.


Or Gaugin’s arse, come to that.

Anyway, Denzil had already slurped “three or four” pints before we got there. The lying sod. He’d actually had eight or nine in The Oirish, cos I asked Shameless the barman a couple of days later.

Whatever, the ‘art’ on show was some modern abstract nonsense that you wouldn’t hang in your tumbledown shed, even if your granny had bought it for your birthday, and the artist was a goofy-toofed skinny bird with bad breath and hairy armpits. It did not bode well, from the first bloody minute. No, not at all.

Denzil had spotted the hairy armpits - he loves them on totty. But in his defence (sort of) he’s been weird from birth through no fault of his own, so what can you do? Of course, the blithering bastard was in no fit state to realise that the aforementioned fuzzy Frenchy-things belonged to the creative genius that, for her (presumably formidable) sins, was hosting the whole sorry shebang.

And to be fair to Marie-Celeste, or whatever the hell her name was, she had no idea that Denzil was irredeemably rat-arsed.

But, as they moved unstoppably together, the scene called to mind one of those moments when two cars on ice revolve in slo-mo, anchors pointlessly slammed on and pirouetting like flat-topped metal ballet dancers... And you just know that, any second now, there’ll be a huge, earth-shaking, eardrum-bursting calamity.

Not half. The silly woman - confronted as she finally realised by a corpulent, salivating pisshead - asked him what he thought of one of the ‘pieces’ on show. “Well,” said Denzil,“ it’sh a bit wotsit - um, abshtract. But at firsht glance, I like it. A lot...”

It was too late... “Because,“ he blathered, “if I’m not mishtaken, and I rarely am, it’sh a brilliant representation of our dear-departed Queen Mum being bent over and royally rogered by a pygmy.”

What. An. Arse. I just knew we should’ve gone to that gay tea dance instead.


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'Notes on the back of a beermat.'

Bar-related musings from Our Man in the Corner... >=====> Tippler's Corner

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