If any more proof were needed that Brexit is the best thing to happen to Britain since 1066 and all that, here it is: geologists have at last assembled a picture of the forces that tore a ten-million-year-old land bridge away and turned Britain into an island rather than a peninsula of Europe such as Denmark and Scandinavia. Yippee!
It was God himself who ordered it. The bridge ran from Dover to Calais and deep into Cheeseland, until the Almighty decreed Brexit. All this may have taken place a very long time ago, 450,000 years or so, but it’s proof that God never wanted Britain to be part of Europe. End of story, you atheist, tantrum-throwing dilettantes; you preening, foul-smelling youths; you uninformed, lefty, combed-over BBC caricatures of real people. You’ve lost, so move to Brussels, share your wives and girlfriends with transsexual Belgian couples, take orders from the malodorous Jean-Claude, and like it.
This proof of God’s will came to light during the underwater surveys made in preparation for digging the Channel Tunnel. It was the Ice Age, and in a cataclysmic flood, ordered, as always, from above, the white cliffs of Dover appeared as the bridge was torn up and Britain became an island. Again, yippee!
But enough of geology and God’s will. Stranger things have been happening to me. Last week I went to the Boom-Boom Room with Michael Mailer and two beautiful redheads, both Irish. For some strange reason people were staring at us. I know, I know, it could have been because the girls were in their twenties, and I am just a tiny bit older, but I didn’t pay too much attention to the attention paid to us. But it persisted, especially when we began to smooch while dancing. We had killed one bottle of vodka, perhaps two, when some wiseguy came up to me and asked me, in an English working-class accent, if I thought I was hot shit. I told him to fuck off and to my surprise he did. This was around 4 a.m. The next morning Michael rang and solved the mystery. The reason was a simple one: it was gay and lesbian night at the Boom-Boom, and we were the only four straight people in the room. Plus I was dressed like a banker among a crowd that resembled the cast of Samson & Delilah, the 1950s movie epic starring Victor Mature and Hedy Lamarr.
The Big Bagel is good fun nowadays. The MoMC arrived with my son, two grandchildren and three dogs, putting a damper on my nocturnal activities. My old buddy Chuck Pfeifer turned 76 and there was a lunch for his five best friends at Michael’s, the restaurant that most closely resembles the defunct Elaine’s, as far as characters are concerned. But when it comes to the food, Michael’s has great nosh whereas Elaine’s was not only inedible, it was dangerous to one’s health. Pfeifer was awarded two silver stars in Vietnam while serving in the Special Forces, but he no longer drinks, hence I see him only for lunch. During this particular lunch we all reminisced about the wild old nights, including the time in Saigon when a lady of the night greeted me with, ‘You’re number one, you’re number one…’ When I refused to pay her $500 for a quickie, she said, ‘You’re number ten thousand…’
Then it was Bartle Bull’s turn. Bartle is an Anglo-American and has written many novels about the Middle East and Far East. He told us how he was the only person ever to get a free drink off Elaine, the 400lb behemoth who ran her place à la Mussolini and then some. He was at Elaine’s when Jackie Kennedy Onassis came in and complained about the notorious paparazzo Ron Gallela hounding her. Elaine waddled out, grabbed the cover off a dustbin, and smashed the photographer on the head with it. Bleeding profusely, he screamed that he would sue. That is when Bartle approached Elaine, announced that he was a lawyer and told her he had witnessed Ron attacking her. ‘Have a drink on the house,’ was all Elaine said. It was the one and only time in 30 years that she had uttered such words.
Now back to Brexit. A female American reporter, Sarah Lyall, has been writing a very long, wordy, boring piece in the New York Times about a mighty city trembling at a global crossroads. Her words, not mine. (I write badly, but not that badly.) Never have I read so many clichés, at least not since I was a child reading books for four-year-olds. She quotes the editor of The Good Immigrant, a book consisting of essays by non-white Britons. The editor feels alienated. As well he should. Where he comes from, people don’t get to vote. She then quotes a publisher of the English persuasion: ‘We should be moving together,’ he says. Gosh, what originality and what brio. Better to look outward, says la Lyall, not to gaze inward. I agree. Looking inward can be a terrible thing, much too traumatic, especially if one works for the deplorable paper that she does. Londoners are becoming cold and mean-spirited because of Brexit is her message. Poor dear. She should go to the Boom-Boom on gay and lesbian night, and try to imagine how cold and mean-spirited the crowd was towards the poor little Greek boy.
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