I rather stupidly went along to a Christmas gathering in a certain so-called 'It' bar in Dublin some night during the week. I can't be expected to rememeber the names of days during the Xmas follies. I suppose I was hoping I'd have the chance to see Glenda when I opened the toilet lid and then let nature's call call me.
Anyway, the person I'd gone with kept fluttering off on me. Now normally I wouldn't notice such a thing as I'd be fluttering myself senseless too, but these kinds of bars have a distinctly chavvy flavour and that scares me, to tell you the truth. One could quite easily look sideways at the wrong blond and end up with a child called Shakira.
So I skulked about drinking too much Vermouth, with the result that I very soon blacked out. I came to with my date pulling at my arm insisting that I was going the wrong way down Dawson Street. It turned out she was right. You see, fops are born with no sense of direction; it's a trade off- God endows us with impeccable taste, rapier sharp wit and timing, but challenges us by denying us the ability to get our bearings.
My date then informed me that on being introduced to the owner of the bar, I promised him six of the best and then pushed him. The man, reportedly a fop himself, simply looked at me blankly. I must tell you this kind of ungentlemanly behaviour is farcically out of character for me;I couldn't fight off a head cold. This prompts the question: why would I do such a thing? My date was sure I'd been spiked. I think the reasons were much more complex and altruistic. It can be summed up in a question. If you'd met Snow Patrol before their unexplained rise to fame, would you have bludgeoned them to death with a lump of hard Italian cheese...for the good of humanity?
I rest my case. My hands are clean.
Another Crisis in Foptown.
Have a very merry Christmas everyone in Fopland. And remember, where ever you may be, let your fop flag fly. And avoid chavvy 'It' bars.