Monday, May 24, 2004
Two gays walk into a bar, which unfortunately isn't the prelude to a joke. I could have told you about the three pieces of tarmac that go into a bar, one red, one black and one green - and the barman refuses to serve the latter as he's a 'complete cyclepath', but that only works when you say it aloud to highlight the similarities between the words 'psychopath' and 'cyclepath', and while I love you all, there's no way I'm travelling around to each of you to tell you what is, in retrospect, a rather poor joke. Anyway. These two gays - let's call them Lee and Declan walk into a bar. Declan is a little quiet, and his gaze keeps flicking from one bottle to the next on the rack behind the frumpy bar-frau with the pineapple hairdo, until he's completely alienated her with his non-eye contact. I push forward to give the minty cow the order and marvel at her irregular, yellowing teeth when I hear a satisfied 'Ah!' behind me. Let it be noted for the record that I was in no way responsible for that 'Ah!' of almost climatic proportions; while Declan and I did indeed dally in some sweaty activity once, it was before the advent of pound coins, and both of us would rather sleep with Vanessa Feltz before we do that again. No, it is a little-known fact that Declan is a master of cocktails, and is responsible for in invention of The Flaming Handbag, which turned out to be a polite little knicker-loosener for everyone who attended my 25 birthday. And it appears that he's finally ended his quest to find the ultimate ingredient of his latest effort - The Rohypnol. It's with this one that he wants to give something back to the community, and hopes that the recipe becomes famous, purely - and for this reason alone - so that every man can then walk into a bar and say, "I'll have a pint of Stella, and a Rohypnol for the lady."