Saturday, August 30, 2008

Run away!

So last weekend I find myself standing in a queue at our local off-licence. I say local. There is one that's closer, but the staff are terrible, spending most of their time in their little office in the back getting very high indeed, and generally not giving a shit about their customers, their shop, or their stock. And they know fuck all about wine. Which you don't expect in Threshers, you really don't.

Queueing in front of me - this is the borders of Essex after all, so bottle stores usually have a queue - are two Young People, one of either sex. The male one sported sequin clad gym pumps and a matching belt. They might have been a bit theatrical, their conversation suggested as much, but I have an inkling that when it comes to theatre, this young fellow has it in much more than just his blood. Oh, and he was wearing heavier makeup than a Northern lass out on the lash. The last time I saw that much foundation, they stuck the Gherkin on top of it.

Apropos of bugger all, the chap behind me suddenly leaned in close and said "Bolt!"

"Huh?"

"Bolt!"

"I'm sorry?"

"Bolt!"

At this point he gestures vaguely to something that he is resting on his shoulder.

I had taken his utterance to be an imperative. He was telling me to run away. At first I thought it was a threat, that perhaps he was about to hold the man at the till at gunpoint until he had mixed him the perfect vodka martini, or whatever it is that these criminal types do. When I realised that he wasn't threatening, my next thought was that he was making an uncharitable (and homophobic) comment on the campness of the little theatrical Mary in front of me.

But my puzzled face had triggered a response from the harpy accompanying the chap, and she shrieked something about not everyone watching the Olympics. The chap then said to me "Bolt - he's the fastest man in the world."

"Oh, right," says I.

"He won the (whatever races it was) and broke (whatever world record or records he broke)."

"Did he? Well ..."

The harpy joins in again about not everyone watching the Olympics. They exchange views on whether it is reasonable to assume everyone in the country ought to have known what the guy was talking about because the vast majority of people have been sitting glued to their television sets for the last few weeks. (Perhaps I should have pointed out to him that I actually have a job, and whilst their number may be growing, I don't think you can accurately refer to the jobless as the vast majority of people in the UK. Not yet, at any rate.)

As if offering further explanation, the guy said "He's Jamaican," and indicated towards the thing over his shoulder again. I think it was a Jamaican flag. I'm not very good with flags. I'm not sure how this was meant to allow me to make more sense of the earlier exchange. The guy didn't sound at all Jamaican, though he could have had some ancestry from that part of the world.

What perplexes me is that I really do not understand what reaction he was expecting. What on earth did he think a random stranger would do when someone comes up to them and tells them to bolt?

Sport? No thanks. I'll stick to faggotry, thank you very much.

3 comments:

Tickersoid said...

I have a job and I didn't watch any of the olympics. Well, apart from the ladies beach vollyball, which is compulsory for hetrosexual males.
I did watch Dame Kelly four years ago, a fairy tail pinical to her career, which was as magical as yourself.

Qenny said...

Similarly, I was going to point out that as a pillow-biter my only interest in the Olympics was the mens gymnastics. And maybe that Phelps character. And not, I repeat not, that young British peodobait diver. Although perhaps a couple of the Latvians, especially when they were doing it in pairs.

David said...

I have been doing my research on the Olympics - surely they can't be necessary? Sadly, the Ancient Olympics lasted for more than 1000 years, so looks like a movement with legs (like Mr. Hanky Poo :-).

I concur in your abhorrence of that heterosexual assumption, that we WILL know about a particular sportsman, football player or racing driver.

Perhaps, inspired by your blog, I should just tell it like it is the next time: "I'm afraid I find your assumption of my interest in, or indeed my knowledge of macho competitiveness deeply shallow. I shall be much the more engaged by matters artistic. Pleased indicate your capability of doing so.".