Word up, homies, what da dillio? Da big dog is back and coming at you.
Here we are again then, eh? I trust that life is treating you none too shabbily and that your cheeks have the requisite rosiness to them and your coat is glossy and smooth.
There really is nothing finer than bunking off work early and sneaking off for afternoon cold drinks, is there?
Well, that's just what I did yesterday, flying out the door at two-thirty, jumping on a Greyhound to Newcastle's busy Haymarket area and lashing into the pints with a couple of my dreadful friends in the fashionable but competitively priced pub The Goose.
By jingo, beer certainly tastes better when you should, by rights, be slaving away at work. Reclining in a comfortable leather chair, surrounded by layabouts, ne'er-do-wells, students and shoppers, talking up a whole storm of nonsense while pint after pint of delicious, black stout slips down.
However, since we were all by nature empire builders and eager beavers at heart, we could not content ourselves with slouching around like the cast of an Ocean Finance advertisement. We had places to go, people to see, things to achieve.
So we went to The Percy, where they have a pool table. The old Olympian spirit, you see.
There was a chap and his girlfriend playing when we got there. He seemed pleased to see us. There is always something unsatisfactory about playing pool against a lady friend. The natural urge is to try and beat her brains out, but this has to be counterbalanced with the realisation that, if soundly beaten, she will decide it's a stupid game and that you are "really sad" the way you treat such games so seriously.
Our arrival was thus a welcome distraction.
As it turned out, the lady was quite a good player and won the odd game. In this way, a couple of hours were enjoyably passed, each of us enjoying an extended run of undefeated games at some point. A good time was had by all.
By this point you are probably cursing me to high heaven and wondering who is supposed to be interested in this shit about pool. We don't come here for dull pub chit-chat, give us some filth you old bore, I imagine you to be saying. Well, stick with it, gentle reader, it gets going in a bit.
Doubtless bedazzled by our masterful cuemanship, dazzling repartee and ragtime dance moves, a couple of ladies had gravitated towards the pool room. Reading from left to right, they comprised, an oldish one with short blonde hair and a bit of a red face and a young one with long, curly hair and a pale face. This natural resemblance was easily explained by the fact they were mother and daughter. A charming pair, neither of them in paid employment, they hailed from Heaton, an up-market suburb of Newcastle upon Tyne, noted for the refinement of its ladyfolk.
The mother, resplendent in dayglo tan and a cropped belly top which nicely showed off her burgeoning beer gut, was keen to try her hand at pool.
I beat her like a rented mule. I am skill, me.
The noble game of pool having failed to grip, the topic of conversation drifted to the numerous examples of body art that adorned her. She claimed to have thirteen, only three of which were visible at the time. With a little persuasion, she relented and showed us the one on her back, two one her shoulder and one at the top of her left breast. One of my companions, a bold fellow who tells it like it is, implored her "Howay then, pet, let's see the cat's face", clearly suspecting she was decorated around the groin area.
Possibly feeling that shy bairns get nowt, the lady undid her jeans and showed us a particularly fine tiger peeping above the waistband of her sporty white knickers (with red and white piping). How my friend knew it was a feline down there I do not know.
It was here we approached the business end of the conversation. Our inquiry as to whether there were any more was met with grimaces from the daughter, who regretted to have to inform us they would have to leave as they had no more money. We were cordially invited to buy them more drinks which, she felt, would awaken great gratitude from her mother, who clearly liked us and was growing more amorous by the minute.
Well, really! I was shocked by this type of behaviour. It seemed to me that this young lady was practically pimping her mother's minge for a couple of pints of cider. I said to her "You're practically pimping your mother's minge for a couple of pints of cider. I fear you have misjudged us, my young friend." I mean to say, no-one is fonder of fruity older ladies than myself, but when it comes to being hit on for drinks by a mother and daughter team of moochers, I draw the line.
Besides, her tits were nothing to write home about.
No business having resulted, our new friends melted away like snow in springtime. They were last seen slavering over a biker chap and making suggestive remarks about his helmet.
Slightly shaken by such sordid goings-on, we beat a hasty exit to the soothing, sophisticated atmosphere of the Three Bulls Heads for a thoughtful pint and some cultural conversation. The discussion drifted towards the excellence of the earlier work of US pint-sized pop-perve and inventor of text message speak Prince. In particular his 1991 hit "Gett Off" in which he promised a young lady whom he held in high regard that there would be "twenty-three positions in a one-night stand.
There was some skepticism regarding the figure of 23, our estimates toward a more cautious number. "She'll get two and like it, the dorty whoo-ah!" as one chap put it. Seeking to be fair to the purple-clad pop pixie, I did point out that it was unlikely that Prince sat around in low taverns swilling pints of lager before he swung into action, thus he was possibly capable of greater feats of gymnastics than the members of our little think tank. This was accepted, yet still the feeling lingered that he was showing off.
Twenty-three, eh? Makes you wonder, doesn't it?