A Wolf in Gymnast’s Clothing…

I was fondly reminiscing of the time before flegs, the long-long ago, when all we had to worry about was debt, recession and crunchy credit when my early shift day dreaming was rudely and abruptly interrupted by what can only be described as a Wolfhound in a leotard.

Whilst the reference to the Wolfhound is a bit of dramatic license the leotard, unfortunately, was not. Stood in front of me, like an extra from 1983's Auf Wiedersehen Pet was a tall, stomach laden man in a mustard coloured faux leather coat, stone washed jeans more suited to a German football fan in the 1970s, and what for all the world appeared to me to be a black leotard. It had to be so because it was too tight on him to be anything other than that. I mean this piece of cloth had some work to do to remain tight considering the circumference it had to cover. Whole classes of children could play under this thing and I mean modern school classes of 43 or however many it is now under the Tories.

This man was wet. No, strike that he was damp. And not the, just in out of the rain damp, I mean proper clammy, warm damp. I'd guess you could germinate seeds on him if you were brave enough to get that close. The crotch of his leotard must be a hideous place - warm, moist, slimy (probably) and cheesier than Keith Chegwin telling jokes in a Parmesan factory. I did a sick in my mouth every time I thought about it. And it was really difficult not to think about it.

He had the grey - black unkempt hair, and smell, of a wet Wolfhound. His demeanour was not too dissimilar too it has to be said. I'm pretty sure a well-groomed hound with a bit of encouragement could probably beat yer one in the mustard coloured faux leather coat at any of your family board games...blindfolded at that. I should add his hair was in one of those fantastically tragic teeny tiny ponytails popular with men who think they are David Essex but are in fact David Mellor.

Anyhoo, I got him seated...away from real people with noses and eyes and such and secured an order, of sorts, from him. Not that I consider soup, salad and a Pepsi  worthy of my having taken my pen out of my pocket but these are lean times and one mustn't quibble.

The man seemed agitated. He was forever thumbing his mobile phone and spinning it round in his warm, shovel sized, clammy man hands.

"'ave you got t'charger?"

Excuse me sir?

"A charger for t'phone"

Ah, no...no I don't.

His phone was as old if not older than the Good Friday Agreement. The chances of anyone having a charger for him were slim to fucking none. Not that this put him off asking again.

"Ave phone call t'make, so ah do." He was a Northern chap, probably from some sort of mining town or t'other destroyed by Thatcher in t'eighties t'bitch.

Right, sorry about that said I keen as chips to get the fuck away from him.

"Ave important call t'make ya see"

Right, like I say sir, I have no charger for you.

He had now taken to rubbing his phone to bring it back to life. This was hideous. It was splashy and wet and moist and damp and yet I couldn't take my eyes off it. It was like watching yer grandad playing with an eel in the bath. Or something.

I had to put an end to it.

Maybe, sir if it's a local call I could let you use the house phone? Is it a local call?

"Aye lad, it's a local call alreet and t'is very very important" Like I say he was agitated, like he was waiting on bad news or something. I felt bad for him.

So I got him the phone, he made his call, I returned to his table a couple of minutes later with a napkin and retrieved the phone. Good times.

And then the phone rang about fifteen minutes later. It was a European sounding lady.

"You phone escort? Are you Jim? Escort?"

This went on for a few minutes eventually ending with me putting the phone down, forcefully.

The dirty bugger had tried to book himself a little post dinner "relief" on my bloody work phone. THE FUCKING DIRTY BASTARD!

"Selina" wasn't available this evening. She wanted me to pass that message to "Jim". I wanted to take a hose and car radio aerial to him. Anyhoo, he had gone by the time I got off the phone. He left £15 worth of damp notes on the table and scarpered.

The moral of the story dear reader is, never feel bad for someone in a mustard faux leather coat and black leotard with the hair, smell and gait of a Wolfhound - they are probably just trying to pay for sex with an Easter European lady.