The Purple Pussycat and a Butcher's Boy From Plaistow
I’m feeling rough today. I knew I should never have gone down the Purple Pussycat but Emma was insistent. She’s got a new boyfriend. But she hasn’t told her old boyfriend. Says she likes to live dangerously. The waitresses in the Purple Pussycat are a scream. They all have to wear tight purple bathing suits, purple fishnet tights, purple high-heel shoes and purple cat-ears. Real classy place, if you know what I mean. The waitress serving our table must have been sixty if she was a day. She looked like my Aunty Bertha. When she smiled you could see her top set of dentures slipping down. Once, she smiled so broadly at Emma’s boyfriend that it was touch and go as to whether her dentures would fall into our cocktails.I had a long slow screw up against the wall. That’s a cocktail. I don’t know what’s in it but it tasted like petrol. I only chose of it because of the name. Emma’s boyfriend handed me the drinks list and said “What would you like?” So naturally, I said “A long slow….” well, you get my drift. I couldn’t resist, really. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. Emma’s boyfriend isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. The double entendre flowed past him like custard off a duck’s back. He just grunted and said, “OK.”
I don’t know what Emma sees in him. No, that’s not true. I know exactly what she sees in him. He has an exceptionally large todger. I know I shouldn’t say so but it happens to be true. It’s a quality which is shared by all of Emma’s boyfriends. She seems to live life in a constant quest for bigger and better.
His name, by the way is Jim. I call him James. I don’t think he likes to be called James but see if I care! To be honest, I don’t think he likes me at all. The feeling is mutual. He’s got a nice stomach, though - like a bag of walnuts. I know this for a fact as he insisted on showing it to the waitress. This was a dangerous ploy given her advanced years. She staggered back visibly and nearly fell off her stilettos.
Later on, we went to some grimy little club down in Soho. I bought a half bottle of rum in a shop before we went in and spent the evening lacing a glass of Coca Cola that cost me a couple of quid at the bar. Disgraceful! They even have the cheek to have a sign over the bar saying patrons must not drink their own beverages. Some hopes at those prices!
After a bit I lost sight of Emma and Jim. The barman said he’d seen them go out the back way. There’s a little courtyard out there apparently. Well, I have a pretty good idea why people go out there and it’s not to gaze at the stars! I thought about following them but, on mature consideration, decided against it.
Anyway, it must have been about two o’clock or so when I left. I was sick in the gutter and had to be taken home by a butcher’s boy from Plaistow. God knows how I met him. His name’s Kevin. I vaguely remember telling him over coffee and muesli that I’d see him tonight down the Black Cap in Camden Town. Some hopes! An evening in the Black Cap with a butcher’s boy from Plaistow is not my idea of a good night out, that’s for sure.
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