Tricky Dickie

A very small man dancing man and his cat.

Today I opened the grocery cupboard and upon seeing a bottle of Tonic Water my immediate thought was, “I miss my Husband.”  

This concerns me because I think I may have replaced the love of a digitally challenged man with strange nights out at the Pot and Barrel.  I fear if he does not return to African shores soon I may die of a cirrhotic liver or via a hangover (this is a very real danger).  The real blame for all of this lies with the Pot & Barrel. If that pub was just a little more bland I might be able to stay home on a Saturday night.  But in the spirit of journalistic inquiry I keep going back there.  

Take for example a Saturday night two weekends ago, I sauntered along to the Pot with my sister and Simon the Farmer and within minutes of arriving, my sister had been given the glad eye by a grey-haired old toppie who showed his appreciation of her physical form by licking his lips in an alarmingly reptilian manner.  We were distracted from Lizard Lips questionable advances by the multi-racial dance-off that kicked off to Johnny Clegg’s Impi.  Cue-white boys high kicking themselves on the right road to a groin sprain, while black guys worked their best spaghetti legs and other low temperature moves. 

Moments later a bar fight broke out away from the dance floor in which the two halves of the bar swayed to and fro in a frenzy of punches, tackled restraints and a particularly drunk girl who kept falling out of the action and then diving back in.  My sister had gingerly pulled us away from the action, so we spectated the debauched punch up whilst sipping on a beer quart as the D.J continued to spin the beats and ‘Journey’ compelled us not to stop believing.  Eventually the D.J killed the music and head barman, the appropriately named ‘Justice,’ weighed in and stopped the barney.

Things had reduced themselves to a level of relative normality when I spied a chap I recognized from my primary school days casually dropping his trousers and exposing himself to the oblivious crowd.  I identified the pant-dropper as Richard and in the spirit of Americanism immediately nicknamed him Dick.  Poor Dickie was rather pog-eyed from way too much twala and unable to open one eye he looked a bit like this:

By this point every time I looked at Dick - the pant dropper, who was doing a strikingly good penis impersonation a la Bridesmaids - I was floored by acute hysteria.  Noting my merriment Dick came over whereupon we reflected on the old school days. I told him he had certainly grown since then and he told me that he loved me and then went on to describe my sister’s beauty to her.

Things came to a (ahem) head when Simon the Farmer wandered over to the bar and dear Dick bought him a spoek and diesel (rum and coke).  While waiting for his drink Dick felt up some poor grandmother at the bar and in an unfortunately ill-timed move, dropped his pants again.  The sexually assaulted woman in question was rightly disgusted and fled to get her ‘cop friend’.  

Unfortunately when Simon the Farmer recounted his story to me I thought he said she was off to get her ‘cock ring’.  I was really starting to think that the Pot was entering a whole new level of depravity, but I felt I shouldn’t judge the old cougar if she was so inclined.  Luckily I got the right end of the stick, just as an angry mob returned including the ‘cop friend’.  The offending Dick was manhandled towards the exit followed by the angered victim, whilst her gay friend skipped behind her clapping his hands indignantly at the entire spectacle.

Dear Simon the Farmer, was a bit put out by the incident as Dick had bought him a beverage and then realizing the error of his ways had hidden behind Simon’s 6 ft.+ frame bleating, “I don’t want to get hurt. I don't want to get hurt.”

Just when I didn’t think the night could get any weirder a very nice little man, some might call him a midget, named Herbert asked me to dance to Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines.

You wanna hug me,

What rhymes with hug me?