Cities. (Tuesday, December 02, 2008)

A flight back from Europe, less miserable than the horrifying trip over where my glorious leader got pathetically drunk and tried to sleep with the flight attendant. Worse could happen, but at 3am at 20 000 ft above a frigid ocean, the last thing you want to hear is your boss screaming the number of women he has slept with. But that was only the beginning.

Further misadventures included an interesting but largely uneventful trip to Doncaster, Yorkshire. And a night out drinking with an army friend of mine at a South African pub. And so, for your reading enjoyment I present:


I drank at a South African Pub and I've STILL never met a nice South African, because they really are a bunch of arrogant bastards who hate black people


After a quick few pints at a smattering of pubs including the sad "Maple Leaf", a Scot friend of mine and I decided what better to do in London on vacation, but to get completely destroyed at a South African pub? The answer? ANYTHING.

The idea for this quest began a few days prior to the story. After meeting an ex-Rhody veteran who decided to tell his best war stories to me in the hotel lounge. My business associate, Ardashir, had long since bailed due to something he referred to as "work", so I didn't particularly care who I was speaking to, so long as I wasn't stuck in the back of some pub staring off into the distance limiting my conversation to "another one of these please".

The Rhody, (who's name I never bothered to ask), was apparently organizing some sort of ex-military reunion and happened to mention a decent South African pub in London. After this point he accused the black bartender of short-changing him his money. Thereby ending my conversation with him. The trouble with bad ideas and me, is that I know full well how these things turn out. Consciously, I know better than to play with fate, but some genetic malfunction prevents me from listening to rational thought. I call that malfunction "drinking".

So this idea begins to fester in the back of my mind. I wasn't consciously aware of its existence and went about my day without a second thought for it. It wasn't until a friend of mine from the BA arrived, that the spores of this bad idea spread. The idea infecting my judgment and led the two of us into this wretched pub deep into a drinking embassy of the dark continent.

The doorman could see us coming a mile away. We'd been drinking all afternoon, mostly for sustenance rather than entertainment. However, these things tend to creep up on you. A whiskey shot aperitif followed by a 4 pint lunch rejuvenates the body but clouds the mind.

After the doorman let us through with a cunning smile usually reserved for the doomed, we walked in. It seemed normal enough, almost Australian in design. Besides, my friend was there, and nothing is more reassuring than having a psychotic drunken Scotsman on your side when walking through the jaws of hell. What, could possible go wrong? Then he saw her. Single, and immediately distracted by any run of the mill dark haired seductress, I could see exactly where the incident was going to start. Almost pre-cognitive and best described as that feeling you get when you see a heavy object falling from a high shelf immediately above your head. You know what's going to happen next, but its too late to react.

"Scot" immediately begins chatting her up. She seemed flattered enough, but was still relatively sober. Standing under a speaker I couldn't hear their conversation and decided to get a bottle of Castle lager and stand around like a jackass. Then she got to the point. Existing in the tip of her outstretched finger, and accentuated by an equally outstretched arm, The point was, (and usually is) the very heart of a given issue. In this case, the point was 6ft 5, 300 pounds and sitting in the corner with two of his equally large friends. "Scot's" face dropped. So did mine. Without even hearing their conversation, I got the point. Anyone else in the bar who had been looking over at her (and most were), would have gotten the point. However, "Scot" did not. Like most of his ilk, a situation like this is more of a challenge than a warning. Realizing this, the point decided to join us.

Having to duck, due to the lowish ceiling, he took up most of the corridor. A strange wave of tactical thinking began slowly churning in my mind. It began with horror, and then amusement when I realized he was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and pork-pie hat. And so the main event started.

"What's your sport mate?" Speaking to me instead of "Scot".

This took me a moment, Being in London that long, I had realized most English usage is never literal.

"How do you mean?" I replied like the moron I was.

This caused him a bit of amusement since he was all too aware of what was going on.

"Yeah, as in do you play football? Rugby?"

Once the literal nature of his comment was discerned, I could see the clouds part. With everyone now listening in, the tide of the evening was now within my court. My next comment would decide the entire scenario.

"Nah man, my sport is drinking." (....fucking....idiot, here we go..)

The rest of their table was suddenly around us. I realized everyone had heard my statement. Including both bartenders. Despite having eaten nothing solid all day and still recovering from a previous hangover, I immediately realized this was the best that could be hoped for. I made a mental assessment of my health and level of intoxication and found that most of the bullshit I had been speaking that night, had actually been of the sober variety. Which meant, (in many instances of previous experience) I was top of my game.

While "Scot" laughed uncontrollably, she took notice,

"Drinking is your sport?"

"Sport, Art and Science" (oh go on!)

She purchased the first round. Jagerbombs. Child's play. Jagermeister is truly a masters spirit. Under estimated by the novice, it is only attempted by the professional after conquering each of the three wise men (Tequila, Whiskey and Vodka). However, when combined with red bull, the effects are diluted, ensuring that an accomplished drinker has nothing to fear from stumbling like a moron. The greatest risk is merely premature heart failure.


There is an etiquette to drinking spirits most people over look. While some cultures suggest that you must overturn the finished shot glass, others insist it be placed upright on the bar. In the case of tumbler glasses, this is always the custom. However, in competition, there is one often overlooked standard. To win, your shot glass MUST hit the bar before all others and for the finale, you MUST take the drink with a completely straight face. Any sign of weakness will be immediately sought out and attacked. I was aces.

Five rounds later, and the threat of brutal beatings had subsided. "The Point" had been vanquished, and left the bar sullen having realized his position. My job as "wingman" had gone stunningly. "Scot" was chatting with the girl and I was milling around taking to a variety of the local inhabitants about the status of South Africa, asking about different beer, and discussing the finer points of Nigerian dance hall music.

Live music followed, with a few requests from "scot" and myself going off stunningly well, turning what was a normal night into one of that bars best. Drinks were poured by others, few were paid for by me. The girls overly protective drunken brother had been rendered retarded with drink and the remaining friends of there's were just happy we weren't English.

Of course, things can't go on forever in good health. Which how I found myself speaking to some strange psychotic who was somehow involved in the running of the bar. The only Englishman allowed in it seemed, which was understandable considering his behaviour. Then I noticed the tattoo, which the internet conveniently has many representations of. The tattoo was none other than the emblem of the SAS. The British Special Air Service.

No stranger to unfortunate home-made tattoos and recognizing the image as that of the badge of the SAS, I realized what the situation was. The psychotic I was speaking to was one of three things:

1. An active SAS member
2. A past-serving SAS member
3. A total and complete walt

While this was never determined, the tattoo was done by hand. Further I don't believe a serving member would be allowed to wear a tattoo of the unit on his forearm. However, I didn't ask.

The night began to wind down. The SAS man demanded that the bar stay open and so the dregs of our party sat around smoking cigarettes indoors (to my great pleasure) and drinking free booze until around 1 or 2. Having consumed enough alcohol to kill a horse, "Scot" and I ventured out for food. Arriving at possibly the worst chinese-food takeaway I've ever had in my life. In my drunken state, I finished half of my meal and then started berating the staff over the quality of the food considering its expense. The reaction: Stone-faced reserve. I handed my meal back to the staff (politely) and walked outside to find the SAS man hunched over on the pavement with an opaque blue liquid dribbling out of his mouth unconscious. He had followed us there. What had happened to him, I do not know, but I knew it was time to go home.

Immediately finding a taxi, I said goodbye to "Scot" and the girl, and went home to endure one of the most painful hangovers of my life. I don't think London is any more different than any other place I've been to in the western world. Differences between major cities are superficial. Spoken language, street names and product names. The rest is identical. There is always some vortex of the bizarre where ever you happen to be. If you seek it, you'll find it. My best advice is to avoid it at all costs. For whatever reason, I can't.