BY JAMES BEMBRIDGE & DOMINIC WIGHTMAN
Dear Dominic,
I am writing concerning our meeting in that peculiar inn, if only so you might tell me it didn’t take place.
You’ll remember it was just you, me, the barmaid and an old man who, upon seeing us, spat on part of the floor making it the only part clean.
‘It’s that stupid Quentin Crisp hat of yours he doesn’t like. Take it off,’ you said.
‘No, it’s those atrocious jeans of yours – leave them on this time,’ I replied.
The barmaid offered us an ‘order or get out’ smile and you chose cider.
‘See, James, I’ve still got it,’ you said, running your hand through your hair and leaving on it Grecian 2000.
When the barmaid turned, I was met with the most extraordinary sight. To put it simply, I met a greater arse than you, Dominic. On this map of cellulite, I noticed your eyes travel. There you sat, like a haggard jockey hoping for that one last ride.
I then became aware of a noise coming from the old man. Just a dim ruffling of cloth at first, but when that arse of hers got into full swing, the noise became one of violent rubbing.
An empty inn, a great arse – two of them, sorry for forgetting you, Dominic – and an old man wearing thin his foreskin. A terrible spectacle to which we sat front row. Might I suggest The Ivy next time?
Regards,
James
Dear Bembers,
Yes, the old bar was quiet, the kind of desolate quiet you must be well accustomed to, waiting for hours on end in your chaps in that row of tiny, damp cottages in Russell Square gardens.
Yes, the bar lady was a force of nature, her blue and white striped leggings clinging to her like a second skin, the stripes stretching and curving in ways that defied geometry.
Yes her derrière was a masterpiece of proportion, a thing so grand it had its own gravitational pull. Really, there was nowhere else to look. I recall that you, seated beside me — a qualified purveyor of sit-upons — were left uncharacteristically speechless.
When I ordered that first cider I tried to focus on the golden liquid in front of me. But I confess that my eyes betrayed me, drifting back to her as she moved. Every time she turned, the stripes on her leggings seemed to shift, creating an optical illusion that made my head spin. I took another sip of cider, then another, hoping they would steady me. They did not. That was when the room began to tilt, the stripes on her leggings blurring into a dizzying pattern. I gripped the edge of the bar, my knuckles white. Was I having an epileptic fit? I had never had one before, but I imagined this was how it felt. The world narrowed to those stripes, swirling and twisting like a fairground ride gone rogue. I closed my eyes, but the image was burned into my retinas, a kaleidoscope of blue and white.
Those stripes still haunt me, James. Are they payback for my occasional mocking of the mad intersectional trend for obese models?
If you recall, I downed the new pint in just a few gulps. The room steadied, but only slightly. Then I needed air, space, something to break the spell. I stood, my legs wobbly, and made my way to the door.
Outside, the cool night air hit us like a slap. If you recall, I leaned against the pub wall for a while, taking deep breaths. Those stripes still danced in my mind, but the world was no longer spinning. You hurriedly lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up into the darkness. We agreed that the bar lady was a force to be reckoned with, a tempest in blue and white.
I would go back, of course. The cider was good, and the view was unforgettable. But next time, I’d sit facing the other way. You?
Sorry I had to leave you alone after that but you seemed very keen to get back in the bar ‘to help that poor old man’. What a selfless, Bob-a-Job boy scout you are, Bembers. How proud I am to call you my friend.
Finest,
Dom
P.S. One-Twist dye by L’Oréal … Because I’m worth it.