6. Tarquin Zanzibar
As Friday whirls around to meet us like an occasional friend we find ourselves ensconced in the Salisbury.
Regular visitors will pick out familiar faces amongst the clientele. Kwacker is in the corner nursing a small port. Alfie Hoole is being edified by the fat bloke on the quiz machine (who has taken a break from said machine). Lemuel Cullen has had a falling out with the long-suffering Persephone. He will ultimately re-learn the error of his ways.
Today we focus on a relative newcomer, one Tarquin Zanzibar. Affectionately known as Tarka to all that love him. He is tall and handsome, looks like James Dean, but a little 'otter. He is presently stood at the bar trying to convince the Nick Cave lookalike barman to give him samples of the fine whisky selection. Nick Cave is having none of it and insists he coughs up coin of the realm for a sample. "And not any of that foreign money that you tried last time mate".
Persephone notices, everything, she mouths "large Jura" at Nick Cave as the jukebox screams out the latest of Lemuel's selection. She grins at Tarka, "I know a fellow ligger when I see one. There you go, that's your lot lad, say thanks."
And that is what Tarka is. A ligger. He would go to the opening of an email if there was a payoff involved. A professional blagger he has just been ejected from an Ancoats Loft Arthouse party. He was charming everyone, regaling the gathering with tales of his exploits with Andy Warhol until some spoilsport pointed out that he was born only five years before Warhol's death and that to the best of their knowledge and belief Mr Warhol never visited a kindergarten.
Unfazed Tarka drifted from one set of lights to another until he alighted upon the Salisbury.
"Hey, Nick Cave!" he ejaculates, "what's that?" He points out an elaborate and ancient looking spear affixed to the wall behind the bar.
"That is The Spear of Destiny, no you can't hold it."
"Did you know I was once in a three way with Kirk Brandon and Boy George?" began Tarka.
"P- off Tarka, you've had too much to drink."
Goodnight Tarka.
Regular visitors will pick out familiar faces amongst the clientele. Kwacker is in the corner nursing a small port. Alfie Hoole is being edified by the fat bloke on the quiz machine (who has taken a break from said machine). Lemuel Cullen has had a falling out with the long-suffering Persephone. He will ultimately re-learn the error of his ways.
Today we focus on a relative newcomer, one Tarquin Zanzibar. Affectionately known as Tarka to all that love him. He is tall and handsome, looks like James Dean, but a little 'otter. He is presently stood at the bar trying to convince the Nick Cave lookalike barman to give him samples of the fine whisky selection. Nick Cave is having none of it and insists he coughs up coin of the realm for a sample. "And not any of that foreign money that you tried last time mate".
Persephone notices, everything, she mouths "large Jura" at Nick Cave as the jukebox screams out the latest of Lemuel's selection. She grins at Tarka, "I know a fellow ligger when I see one. There you go, that's your lot lad, say thanks."
And that is what Tarka is. A ligger. He would go to the opening of an email if there was a payoff involved. A professional blagger he has just been ejected from an Ancoats Loft Arthouse party. He was charming everyone, regaling the gathering with tales of his exploits with Andy Warhol until some spoilsport pointed out that he was born only five years before Warhol's death and that to the best of their knowledge and belief Mr Warhol never visited a kindergarten.
Unfazed Tarka drifted from one set of lights to another until he alighted upon the Salisbury.
"Hey, Nick Cave!" he ejaculates, "what's that?" He points out an elaborate and ancient looking spear affixed to the wall behind the bar.
"That is The Spear of Destiny, no you can't hold it."
"Did you know I was once in a three way with Kirk Brandon and Boy George?" began Tarka.
"P- off Tarka, you've had too much to drink."
Goodnight Tarka.
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