I get to the Coats & Saucies¹, and the bar area is of insufficient height to accomodate my elaborately costumed cranuim, resulting in having to affect a Quasimodo lumbering stoop to get to the seatage.
And then comes the arrival of fellow compatriots for inebriating quaffage. And each expresses surprise at the extent of the extensive height of the hat. I TOLD them how big it was. I illustrated quite precisely previously the exact height.
Seems no-one believed me.
But now you know, when Xym says how big it is, you know it IS literally that big!
No fibber Xym!
"But Xym, " quoth the gatherance, "surely you will most prominent down The WhatACunt. Feral yobbos will nick your hat!"
"Ha! " laughs off The Xym, "anyone tries to nick my hat, they'll get a punch in the face!". For I am an exponent of Dimac, the deadliest form of martial art known to mankind, that can instantly disable any foe, should I so wish. My hands and feet are deadly weapons that can kill, maim, mutilate, disfigure, tear, rend and cripple. They are registered with the police, and when not in use need to be placed under lock & key at all times.
Of course, I cannot use my deadly arts upon my chums, but I was given a hands on lesson by a polish Pretty in the ancient art of Dimmock, being the art of norkitudinal caressment. And a very welcome lesson it was too!
So, we get to The WhatACunt, and The Xym is much admired for the doric column upon his coiffure.
And a chav nicks the hat, and in a flash, seemingly without movement, the hat is back in one hand and the other is outstretched in pose #27 (The Dragon Breaks Wind On His Enemies) and the thieving lout staggers back from The Previously Promised Punch In The Face.
Apparently self-defense in the retrieval of personal posessions is frowned upon by purloiners of stove pipe simulcra and much remonstration ensued afore the tealeaf tosser Fled The Scene.
Only to return later to serve a barrage of unwarranted abuse upon The Ladies. From behind a door. Opening it to spout a childish belittling of alternative types, before legging it once more.
Only to return later to apologize for his pissheaded plunderage and smooth things over.
Only to return later to profusely apologize again.
Only to return later to warn me not to go downstairs, as his mates are out to 'sort me out'.
Only to return later in something of a panic to apologize as he can't find them.
Only to return later to apologize he's only found one... and his other mate, well, his boyfriend is enraged. He's got a knife, and like the Color Me Badd hit: "He wants to stab me up".
Only to return later - he now wants to be my bodyguard, as he can't find his mates wifey with knifey. Then runs off, returning to inform it's all sorted.
But later... SUBTERFUGE! Seems like the cessation of stabbage only related to whist indoors under the scrutiny of bouncers and my army of defenders. Now there's new rumblings that once outside, they're gonna give it to me.
And I have no intention of being stabbed up the back alley by some (pork) sword wielding homochav behind the buger bar.
Burger bar? Bugger bar, more like! Bum burgler bar. Quarter pounded to death. With cheese. Nob cheese, more than likely.
And after all that, I realised the swiping of the hat had concealed further filchings. He'd only gone and snaffled away my mojo, the half-inching chavscum.
So I fled into the night, bewailing the lot of the behatted.
Oh well, so much for impressing the Pretties with oversized hat. Guess next time I'll have "chav up" before I go out.
Innit!
¹ FUR COATS, AND NO KNICKERS - WHICH IS PRETTY SAUCY.
