Wednesday
My evening consisted of going to the leaving party for someone at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Knightsbridge, a place I worked for about 3 weekends in March. I opened the front door for the likes of Pearl Jam, Boris Becker and Tom Jones as well as innumerable wealthy Arabs who never tipped me so much as a goddamned penny. I’d bumped into one of the porters, Big Paolo, a couple of weeks ago and he told me that Little Paolo was going back to Italy and I should come to the away party. Normally I wouldn’t invite myself along to these things but it was always such a nice group of people I figured I’d risk it. The Poalos were there (the little one offered to “do sex” with me, which makes me wonder how poor his English was before he came to this country), as was Miko, the Turkish concierge who has a fascination with cacti (no, really) and hits on every woman he meets despite being married for some years to a German woman who works in a nursery. I took my leave fairly early so I’d be sure to catch the Tube back to Walthamstow.
Unfortunately I live above a pub in Walthamstow. As I came by to pay the rent I was invited in to the closed pub by its staff and owner. The staff advised me that if I am invited to have a drink from the owner it’s in my best interest to accept it. You see, the pub is owned by Jon Jon, a tattooed hooligan who has spent time in a Turkish prison and has 4 children by 4 different women and is planning on moving back to Turkey with his wife. He is only 35. Upon moving in I was given a physical description of him and instructed to never, ever make eye contact with him. I also got to meet his lovely mother who might as well have been the basis for any dodgy Eastenders character. Jon Jon’s father has been in prison for 20 years, so I think it’s lovely that her son is nearby; I hate to imagine what she’ll do when he goes.
My favourite guest of the evening was a bald, 50something gent with an earring and diamonds in each and EVERY ONE of his teeth. Guy Ritchie can’t even make up stuff half as good as this. I’m pretty sure I hung out with mobsters last night, but I figure it’s best to not ask too many questions, especially if they would tend to be something like, “What’s your dad in prison for?” or even “What do you do for a living?”
I love London.
Unfortunately I live above a pub in Walthamstow. As I came by to pay the rent I was invited in to the closed pub by its staff and owner. The staff advised me that if I am invited to have a drink from the owner it’s in my best interest to accept it. You see, the pub is owned by Jon Jon, a tattooed hooligan who has spent time in a Turkish prison and has 4 children by 4 different women and is planning on moving back to Turkey with his wife. He is only 35. Upon moving in I was given a physical description of him and instructed to never, ever make eye contact with him. I also got to meet his lovely mother who might as well have been the basis for any dodgy Eastenders character. Jon Jon’s father has been in prison for 20 years, so I think it’s lovely that her son is nearby; I hate to imagine what she’ll do when he goes.
My favourite guest of the evening was a bald, 50something gent with an earring and diamonds in each and EVERY ONE of his teeth. Guy Ritchie can’t even make up stuff half as good as this. I’m pretty sure I hung out with mobsters last night, but I figure it’s best to not ask too many questions, especially if they would tend to be something like, “What’s your dad in prison for?” or even “What do you do for a living?”
I love London.
posted by sucktastic at 9:32 AM
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