Friday 15th June
Tasty morsels
When my very good friend the Shagger is about to set off on another foray into the wilds of the Third World he mentions that he’ll be passing through London on his return to civilization, and asks if there’s anything he can bring me back from Blighty. Without a moment’s hesitation I shoot back, “Marmite!”
Now Marmite is quintessentially English. With a few rare exceptions, no one else on the planet likes it – the nearest you’ll find is the Ozzies, who committed the ultimate sacrilege of cloning the ambrosial spread and naming their abomination Vegemite. This concoction is a pale imitation of the original – sweet, anaemic and pasty, whereas Marmite is a rich savoury brown and seductively oleaginous. It has memorably been described by the writer Bill Bryson as “an edible yeast extract with the visual properties of an industrial lubricant.” To dip your finger in a newly-opened jar of Marmite and slowly lick it off is one of life’s great erotic experiences.
For the post-war generation of young Brits who were brought up in a world of hand-me-down austerity and food rationing, many a time the evening meal would be a plateful of Marmite sandwiches – and for a special treat, a slice of Cheddar cheese might be slipped in as well. For me, a jar of Marmite is instant nostalgia.
The Marmite jar itself has become a symbol of England. Made of shiny dark brown glass with a distinctive curved shape (modeled on the French cooking pot from which it takes its name), it ranks alongside the original Coke bottle as one of the century’s great icons.
I enter Top Gun on Friday night in tremulous anticipation of the jar of brown nectar that I’m about to receive from the Shagger, and five minutes after I sit down at the bar his trusty sidekick strolls up. “Where’s the Man?” I plaintively cry; “Don’t tell me he’s on the nest already!” “No, he’s around here somewhere and will be back in a minute” is the calming reply. And yes, even as the words are uttered up strides the Man of the Moment, bearing the precious gift.
After the initial relief and release of tension, I notice something rather odd about the dear chap. He’s wearing what seems to be a pair of tinted swimming goggles. ‘Has he finally flipped?’ I ask myself – ‘or is this a rather pathetic attempt at a disguise to keep the prowling ex’s away from him?’ The answer is even more peculiar than my speculation. They are, in fact, a couple of miniature plastic beer mugs – very literally, a pair of beer goggles.
The goggles instantly become a great conversation piece in the bar, and one of the Top Gun beauties stops dead in her tracks to admire the novelty. “You don’t need beer goggles to appreciate that particular Sweet Young Thing!” I murmur as she sidles up to him in order to examine more closely the craftsmanship of the miniature mugs.
This of course involves a modicum of physical contact, and within a couple of minutes she’s established territorial rights on the Shagger – who seems only too happy to accept the status quo. With a look of pure and concentrated lust he slips an arm around her waist in order to stop her falling over while she peers into his eyes.
I turn round to have a quick word with Dave Jardine, and on swiveling back am surprised to find that the lass has done a vanishing act – and all of a sudden a pair of hands slide from under the Shagger’s arms and proceed to caress him rather lasciviously. But wait – these are different hands. Darker hands. Oh dear, another Sweet Young Thing is attempting a bit of surreptitious claim-jumping in the absence of her friend. ‘Where has loyalty gone?’ I ask myself – and promptly answer that with ‘What a silly question to ask in Blok M!’
Our conversation drifts back to Gladstone, and Dave joins in with alacrity. We wonder yet again quite what the old chap was up to with his night-time perambulations in the dark streets to seek out and save fallen women, and ask ourselves if there might perhaps have been a darker motive in his mission. Dave’s take is that, as in speculation about the identity of Jack the Ripper, there could well have been collusion between a corrupt and self-perpetuating Establishment and their lackeys the London police in protecting him from harm or accusations of impropriety. The Shagger looks at it from the socio-economic angle, and we boggle at the number of girls and women who were on the game in London at that time. My own pennyworth is more psychological – that he was possibly one of those types who thrive on danger and the risk of discovery to the point where it becomes an addiction.
The talk swings round to literary style, a topic on which Dave is an acknowledged master. “There was a definite touch of the Trollope in your last blog,” the Shagger opines after our conversation meanders around different writers and their styles, and he’s spot on. “But the greatest influence on my writing is Old English poetry,” I volunteer. “Its rhythms and cadence had a profound effect on me as a young writer, and my love of alliteration and assonance stems directly from it.”
We then get to chatting about Blok happenings, and it seems that the report of D’s Place relocating is rather premature. According to the latest gossip from the top of the street, that’s what the owners would like to do – but it’s by no means certain that it will come to pass. The D’s staff are apparently prepared for the worst, and fear for their jobs after Lebaran. We all commiserate on that, as they’re a splendid crew.
My drinking on Friday night can best be described as eclectic. A couple of bottles of beer washed down with a double Pernod, then a couple of tequilas and yet more beer, makes for a mellow mood and a happy heart. Yes, it’s been a good night on the Blok. A very good night indeed.
The Shagger hears whispers of something Rather Naughty going on (or rather, by the sound of it, coming off) in the D’s Place VIP bar, so he’s off like a rat up the proverbial drainpipe leaving me to hold the fort until his return. This respite gives me an opportunity to indulge in my favourite pastime – girlwatching.
There’s a new girl at the pool table, a young and rather dumpy pale-faced lass in a tight-fitting black dress who’s taking the game very seriously. She’s up against one of the senior players and is obviously a pool newbie, but she shows a lot of pluck and makes some pretty good shots. I watch the way she drops her chin right down to the stick, keeps her elbow well in, sets her eye squarely on the ball and strikes it with a confident clip. She’s got talent, and will soon be a formidable opponent.
I notice a couple of new girls hanging about next to the sound control box – very young, over made up, and dressed to maim if not to kill. They’re pretty enough, but have a salacious hunger on their young faces. I try to think of an appropriate name for them, and instantly come up with ‘slutlets’.
The once-delectable Risma, she of the original white miniskirt fame, is fading fast. Her erstwhile nymph-like grace has given way to a rather clumsy stomp, her once slim waist is a thing of the past, and her expression is now set in a pouting scowl. As usual, she sweeps past me without so much as a greeting – in a tearing hurry to go absolutely nowhere.
While I’m doing my Twilight Zone patrol Dumb and Dumber slips into the bar and sits at one of the tables. I fear she’s rather overdone the drinkies, as her movements are jerky and her vision just a bit unfocused. She looks for all the world like a preying mantis waiting for a victim to stray within reach. Anis is doing the rounds accompanied by an exceptionally well-endowed young Indramayu Sweet Young Thing who’s one of my favourites. She’s wearing a black dress, and they make a stunningly gorgeous couple.
Indeed black dresses, nicely cut and with a bit of flounce in them, seem to be the order of the day for the girls – with high heeled shoes to complete the ensemble. Unfortunately some of them haven’t yet mastered the art of walking in high heels, and look rather like constipated penguins as they wobble and waddle along.
Zooming in to points of detail, I spend a few minutes looking at the girls’ toes. You can learn a lot about a girl from her toes, as most of them don’t bother with them when making up. Some are well groomed with daintily applied nail varnish, others plain but well manicured; quite a lot, though, haven’t taken any care to make their toes look good, which rather spoils the overall effect – ships and ha’p'orths of tar is the expression that springs to mind.
Eyebrows are another thing that I always check out. More and more girls, and in particular the OEMs, are covering their natural eyebrow line and pencilling in a shrill and ugly pair of peaked arches above it. This gives the girl a rather hard and synthetic appearance, and is one of the biggest turn-offs for me and many of my mates.
Another depressing tendency is for a girl to get her nose reshaped as soon as she’s got the money. Now the Indonesian nose is beautiful, and suits the local girls’ faces perfectly. Even the best nose job looks artificial and out of place, and it saddens me to see an otherwise beautifully proportioned face marred by surgery.
The bar door suddenly opens and in sweeps the Shagger. A quick word informs me that the D’s Naughty Event was a complete waste of time, and that the place is sleazy in a rather unpleasant way. With that, he pushes off into the crowd with the urgency of a Man on a Mission. A few minutes later I recognize his silhouette at the cash desk end of the bar, but no sooner spotted than he drops out of sight again.
A couple of minutes later I catch a glimpse of him being dragged out of the bar at high speed by a very delectable Sweet Young thing who isn’t going to give her victim any chance for second thoughts. As the door swings shut I sob histrionically and wail “Gone! Gone, and never called me mother!”, a quotation from a nineteenth century melodrama that became a favourite catchphrase of The Goon Show.
There’s a good band playing tonight, tuneful and with a nicely varied repertoire. They launch into Bohemian Rhapsody, one of the most difficult pieces to get right, and make a very creditable go of it. My old friend Captain Birdseye always used to say that this song was his benchmark for any band, and I think he’d have appreciated this rendering.
There’s a definite resonance to the night, a low slow pulse that reverberates throughout the bar. The Twilight Zone is crowded, and generates a sound that sways like a harmonic of the background rhythm. Conversation is lively and animated, the whole effect being a pleasant counterpoint to the music.
At about eleven thirty there’s a noticeable outflow and inflow of customers and girls, as the night owls move in and the early evening revellers call it a day. This fragmentation soon settles down, and the mood and sounds palpably shift into late night mode. I stay on for another hour and a half, enjoying the ambience and wandering around the bar – and then decide it’s time to turn in.
On the way home in my regular bajaj I caress the jar of Marmite, and the very thought of its salty tang sets me salivating. It’s all I can do to stop myself ripping the lid off and scooping out great dollops to gorge on before I get home, but willpower wins and the jar is virgo intacta.
The first thing I do on reaching home is to take a stack of wholemeal bread slices and a glistening pat of unsalted French butter, and whip up a pile of Marmite sandwiches. Washed down with unsweetened orange juice, this makes a perfect end to a perfect night. God bless the Shagger!
