Bellies & Burgers, Fingers & Freshies
DINNER AT MELUR
Last night a group of us dined at Melur. It was a successful dining event as exemplified by these Blokes and their Bellies:
Proverb: When the belly is full the mind is amongst the maids
It’s a fancyish Malay restaurant. [If the main course costs more than £4.25, then according to the Nilster Scale of Life, its in the realms of 'fancy'. When a dish hits £9.85+ then its considered 'disgracefully fancy'.]
We all ordered exotic starters made from ingredients we couldn’t pronounce and cooked in ways we couldn’t possibly fathom. Mash, my Bald Bruvva from Annuva Muvva, ordered chicken wings.
‘CHICKEN WINGSSS!!?!” I yelled, my glaring eyes filled with astonishment and voice drenched with disgust.
‘Chicken Wings!! Are you STOOPID!? Dude this is not Dixy’ What are you gonna do next? Order a chicken burger for your main course??!”
I went on to boast how I myself would never have ordered such a base dish. That chicken wings is prime Neanderthalic food. That the last time I stepped into a Dixy was years ago out of sheer necessity as I hadn’t laid eyes on food for three days straight.
MASHED UP
So today I’m in Green Street. I’m outside a shoe store in the cold and wet with my nose pressed against the shop window, looking on at Mother, Honey and Ladoo trying on shoes in the warmth, with….
…a Dixy burger in my hand.
I don’t know how it got there. I don’t know how I managed to stoop so low and, frankly, ‘do a Mash‘. I Mashed up. Royally.
FINGER TO THE FRESHIE
I stood there devouring my Dixy burger as quickly as possible because a) I was starved (having eaten a whole three hours ago) and b) to hide evidence of my sins.
A freshie and his friend walked past and gave me an unctuous smile. I looked at him with sheer incredulity evident across my furrowed forehead. ‘You have got to be sh!tting me.’
There was chilli sauce dripping down my chin, dried mayo on the tip of my nose (I always find dried food on my nose) and lettuce had just fallen out my mouth as I chewed my lank, rubbery chicken burger in a manner akin to a masticating horse – a combination of these sexy traits was clearly turning him on.
They walked on and Freshie turned to give me another smarmy, oily, toothy grin. The second time he did it I stood in the middle of Green Street and gave him the finger:
Up Yours mate!
His smiled turned into a banana grin and returned he the gesture with a…:
*Thumbs up* She wants me baaad
Prat. I’ll give him a brownie point for being so optimistic, thinking the Middle Finger is the UK equivalent of a Freshie Thumbs Up. He must be one happy chappy if he has been going through life thinking all the fingers he’s received are signs of goodwill.
