4. Keith Simpson
Another damp Manchester evening and we again find ourselves in the Salisbury, the hidden gem of a pub that welcomes all, regardless of creed or colour. Or species.
The fat bloke on the quiz machine has just "rinsed it" for five English pounds and is gradually reinvesting his winnings in that trivial pursuit.
Fat bloke is known by several different names but was named by his Marxist-Leninist mother as Ernesto Fidel Shufflebottom. Currently he answers to the name of Nigel, Destroyer of Empires and Scourge of the self-righteous. Or "Nige" for short.
Nige is an actuary, a profession he fell into when he found the crazy world of accountancy too rich for his blood.
However, as interesting as fat bloke's backstory may be, tonight we focus upon his bestest mate. A bestest mate who goes by the name of Keith Simpson.
Keith is legally known as Andreij Sulakvelidze but adopted the 'Keith Simpson' appellation to befit his carefully crafted image of exotic mystery. Keith really tries. Keith is just not very good at it.
Keith considers himself a natty dresser because style always has to cost a lot of money doesn't it? As any fule no. Tonight he is resplendent in his brand new "Levy's 'Pea'coat of Many Colours", acquired from Top-Banana, a Manchester niche fashion store (the hyphen is important) and hand crafted from restored leather garnered from discarded footwear of Bolivian peacock farmers. He looks fucking ridiculous. Still, a snip at £459.99 and with a guarantee that nobody else has one. He leaves the tags on. Of course!
He surveys the bar area and spots Persephone Skink. He sidles up to her and drops his killer lines; "Can I buy you a drink?" and "Do you sleep on your front?"
"Yes, whisky highball please (eyeing the bartender), and no, I prefer to ride my stallions over cajoling a limpy ass." "No offence." Persephone doesn't speak Bullshit but hears it often.
Keith hands over the money and with tail firmly between his legs slinks back to Nige's side at the quiz machine.
He admires Nige. For all Nige's faults (which are many) he is well liked, considered reasonably intelligent and in the right light and from a certain angle fairly handsome. For his age. Keith admires the very fact that Nige "fat bloke" was blessed by the Heavenly Father in that he had the very great fortune to be Manchester-born. Timperley is close. But no cigar.
A full 15 minutes has passed. To Keith, a quarter-hour filled with erudite interaction highlighted with gay banter and spotted with ironic interjections. And YouTube videos on his Lucky-Lucky phone (on a sweet data only sim card deal). Fat bloke is winning on the quiz machine again and indicating that Keith ought to bugger off somewhere else.
Keith has the last laugh, he has a Plan B! Keith has two tickets for the Three Brave Rifiles' gig at the Ancoats Megadrome. He feels sure he can persuade or pay for someone to carry him there. For Keith has imbibed too freely. As he does. Every weekend. And week night.
in his sober Hell, between 3pm and 5pm during the week, the beer sweats and the toilet visits subside to give him a glimpse into the life of 'norms'. It terrifies him. Through the alcohol cloud he remembers his former love. The one who gave up on their joint-venture business of selling fried chicken and sexual services. He and Roxy made a stack. Keith specialised on the frying side of the business. He was the very best at that. "Huh! Better than you bitch!" he mumbles as he staggers towards the door.
Now he is hitting the highway. With his chin.
Ta'ra Keith.
The fat bloke on the quiz machine has just "rinsed it" for five English pounds and is gradually reinvesting his winnings in that trivial pursuit.
Fat bloke is known by several different names but was named by his Marxist-Leninist mother as Ernesto Fidel Shufflebottom. Currently he answers to the name of Nigel, Destroyer of Empires and Scourge of the self-righteous. Or "Nige" for short.
Nige is an actuary, a profession he fell into when he found the crazy world of accountancy too rich for his blood.
However, as interesting as fat bloke's backstory may be, tonight we focus upon his bestest mate. A bestest mate who goes by the name of Keith Simpson.
Keith is legally known as Andreij Sulakvelidze but adopted the 'Keith Simpson' appellation to befit his carefully crafted image of exotic mystery. Keith really tries. Keith is just not very good at it.
Keith considers himself a natty dresser because style always has to cost a lot of money doesn't it? As any fule no. Tonight he is resplendent in his brand new "Levy's 'Pea'coat of Many Colours", acquired from Top-Banana, a Manchester niche fashion store (the hyphen is important) and hand crafted from restored leather garnered from discarded footwear of Bolivian peacock farmers. He looks fucking ridiculous. Still, a snip at £459.99 and with a guarantee that nobody else has one. He leaves the tags on. Of course!
He surveys the bar area and spots Persephone Skink. He sidles up to her and drops his killer lines; "Can I buy you a drink?" and "Do you sleep on your front?"
"Yes, whisky highball please (eyeing the bartender), and no, I prefer to ride my stallions over cajoling a limpy ass." "No offence." Persephone doesn't speak Bullshit but hears it often.
Keith hands over the money and with tail firmly between his legs slinks back to Nige's side at the quiz machine.
He admires Nige. For all Nige's faults (which are many) he is well liked, considered reasonably intelligent and in the right light and from a certain angle fairly handsome. For his age. Keith admires the very fact that Nige "fat bloke" was blessed by the Heavenly Father in that he had the very great fortune to be Manchester-born. Timperley is close. But no cigar.
A full 15 minutes has passed. To Keith, a quarter-hour filled with erudite interaction highlighted with gay banter and spotted with ironic interjections. And YouTube videos on his Lucky-Lucky phone (on a sweet data only sim card deal). Fat bloke is winning on the quiz machine again and indicating that Keith ought to bugger off somewhere else.
Keith has the last laugh, he has a Plan B! Keith has two tickets for the Three Brave Rifiles' gig at the Ancoats Megadrome. He feels sure he can persuade or pay for someone to carry him there. For Keith has imbibed too freely. As he does. Every weekend. And week night.
in his sober Hell, between 3pm and 5pm during the week, the beer sweats and the toilet visits subside to give him a glimpse into the life of 'norms'. It terrifies him. Through the alcohol cloud he remembers his former love. The one who gave up on their joint-venture business of selling fried chicken and sexual services. He and Roxy made a stack. Keith specialised on the frying side of the business. He was the very best at that. "Huh! Better than you bitch!" he mumbles as he staggers towards the door.
Now he is hitting the highway. With his chin.
Ta'ra Keith.
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